Family
by GoodMorningSunshine55
Summary: Liverpool, 1948, and a young John Lennon had nobody but his friends. But when the McCartney clan takes him in as one of their own, can four young working class lads by the names of Paul, George, John and Ritchie band together in more ways than one to learn a little about life?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N Hello, people, and welcome to my story! if you've read this before, you will notice I have edited this chapter... but it's really not much, and if there are enough people that say they hate it I'll replace it with the original. Either way, please enjoy and review! Anonymous reviews and constructive criticism is always welcome!**

**Disclaimer: Yep, I own the Beatles. I solely am in charge of all their advertising, merchandise distribution, music, rights, artistry, members, photographs, recordings, and all that other crap. I am also a pathological liar.**

**-Claire**

February 12, 1946

Bobby had been drunk that night. He worked as bartender in a hotel, a job that allowed him access to alcohol of all kinds like nobody else had on the post-war rations. It was about nine at night, ten possibly, and five-year-old John Lennon had just fallen asleep in the bed that he shared with his mother and Bobby, her longtime boyfriend, when the sound of yelling awoke him from his slumber.

Normally if something woke him up he would simply go back to bed, but the yelling coming from the living room was loud and frightening, and alerted him to the fact that something was wrong. Hopping out of bed without a second thought, he walked out of the room and down the hall, quietly and sneakily peeking around the corner of the wall.

"Bobby, you're drunk, can we please just talk about this later-" pleaded Julia Lennon, John's mother.

"What the bloody hell makes you think you can just order me around, you dumb broad? I can do whatever the fuck I want!" Bobby shouted. He was pacing around the foyer, his eyes rimmed in red and holding a half-empty bottle, as Julia stood near a wall, silently biting her lip and wringing her hands- a strange departure from her normally outgoing, assertive, doesn't-take-no-for-an-answer personality.

"Bobby, please," she pleaded, following him around the room as she tried to reason with the drunken man. "He's my son! I can't just leave him like that! They already made me give up my sweet Victoria, please not John too!" She looked to be close to tears.

The entire exchange was very confusing to the little boy hiding behind the wall, who remained unnoticed by the two quarreling adults. Who was Victoria? And why did Bobby not want him there? (For Julia had only one son, therefore it had to be him they were discussing). He had done everything he could to make Bobby like him over the past several months he had been dating Julia. After all, it seemed as if they'd be living with each other for quite a while. Had it not worked?

"Damn it, Julia!" Bobby snapped, suddenly stopping his pacing. "Have you not noticed we have no money? I work ten shitting hours a day, and all I make is put into caring for you and that kid of yours! I barely have enough as it is to pay the rent! We will lose this house soon! Do you hear me? _We will lose the motherfucking house_!" he was angrier than ever now, and he shook Julia's shoulders violently, making her move back and forth like a helpless rag doll. John shrunk back behind the wall, wishing more than anything the cheap plaster could absorb him and take him away from the reality in front of him. He was even more scared now than before. He watched silently as tears fell freely down his mother's face while Bobby assaulted her drunkenly.

In a fit of courage, she roughly pushed her boyfriend's hands off her and regarded him with a look of pure, unbridled anger. "John's my son! I will not give him up!" She yelled back, her hands clenched into fists.

Suddenly, with no apparent warning, Bobby and hit her. It was a hit- not a slap, which he dealt out to Julia normally when he was angry, but a hard-knuckled punch across Julia's face that sent her to the floor with a yelp of pain and surprise.

John yelped himself at seeing this happening, and without a second thought as to any impending danger he abandoned his post at the end of the hallway and ran across the living room to his mother, who had not yet recovered from being hit and was lying on the floor, her hands pressed to her face and tears streaming freely down the thin nose she had passed on to her son.

"Mum? Are you all right?" asked John meekly, kneeling next to her on the hardwood floor and softly poking her shoulder. At seeing that her son was up and witnessing what was happening, Julia removed her hand from her face, revealing a bloody mark on her cheek. Her eyes widened and darted about the room.

"Go back to bed, love," she whisper-yelled, her voice an even mixture of fake calmness and real urgency and fear.

"Are you okay?" John asked again, not understanding his mother's fear.

"John, please go back to bed! Now!" she hissed, almost angrily.

Suitably confused and his feelings wounded, John began to back up, running into something almost immediately. Suddenly, this something grabbed John by the back of his shirt and bare feet were off the floor, flailing and kicking wildly in the air as he looked frantically around. The front of his shirt dug into his neck, cutting off his windpipe and making it very hard to breathe, if not impossible. Julia's frantic pleading provided a suitable soundtrack for the confusing events taking place, and the same force that had lifted him in the first place turned him around. John's eyes widened in complete terror.

Bobby was very drunk, even drunker that John had guessed from watching him from the corner. His eyes were red and his breath exuded the foul scent of stale whisky. His entire face was contorted into a malicious sneer of drunken hatred. "You piece of shit," he hissed at John. The second he finished this sentence, he let go of John, tossing him into a corner of the room as easily as he would a sack of potatoes.

The little boy hit the wall first, hard, before crumpling onto the hardwood ground in a disheveled heap. He could practically feel his brain rattling, and his entire body blazed with a ubiquitous sharp pain and the tears that he had been holding back began since he had first gotten out of bed began to spill forth in rattling, wailing sobs. He curled up as best he could without hurting himself and shut his eyes as hard, attempting to block out the world around him. He could hear his mother, somewhere close that seemed far away, screaming a terrible, long scream.

"No, Bobby, please!" she shouted, her voice raw. John felt the sharp sensation of Bobby's foot connecting with his ribs

John could feel himself being lifted again by the back of the shirt and he hung once again in the air. He wildly flailed his limbs in vain, hoping to connect with something, but miserably failing. "If you don't give him up, I'll kill him!" shouted Bobby, shaking John.

The little boy's blood ran cold at hearing these words. His grandmother had died only a week or two previously, so he knew very well what death was, or at least enough to know that he wanted to stay on this earth. He wasn't ready, he didn't want to die. But he knew better that to say it aloud, fearing the retribution.

"You wouldn't, Bobby," said Julia, her voice low and threatening. Through the flood of tears in his eyes John could see that she was standing now, about six feet away.

"You know I will, Julia! It's one or the other!"

The woman's face fell in defeat. Bobby could very well kill John, that she knew- he certainly wouldn't do it sober, but when he was drunk he would do anything to get his way. Her tears were falling so quickly that they slid down her face in trails of sorrow, carving paths in her cheeks and trickling down her neck and onto the floor below her. Her curly red hair was disheveled and her eyes were rimmed in red like her boyfriend's, but for completely different reasons. "Okay," she whispered, burying her face in her hands as sobs began to take over her body.

"Okay what?" growled Bobby, tightening his grip on John, who had by now given up fighting and was hanging limply, tears falling off his red cheeks.

"Tomorrow," she said, barely audible. "I'll take him to my sister's house. Mimi's."

"No, he goes now," said Bobby, stalking to the door.

"Bobby-" began Julia, but her protests were cut off when suddenly her boyfriend pushed past her and knocked her to the floor.

And, just like that, Bobby opened the front door and tossed John out.

He landed on the second step, and practically rolled the next few until he stopped on the sidewalk. Blindsided, he sobbed louder than ever before, so loudly that he was surprised the neighbors didn't come out to see what had happened. He cried out of betrayal and heartbreak, out of pain both physical and emotional, ot of betrayal and confusion, out of heartbreak. He sobbed for who knows how long, until the slushy gray snow below him seeped through his thin blue pajamas and froze him. The cold numbed his face and his limbs, dulling the hurt from being thrown and kicked, but it didn't numb his feelings in the slightest.

He sat up after a while and hugged his knees to his chest, shivering in the cold. It must have been thirty degrees Fahrenheit outside, and the frigid air invaded him like a foreign army. A few more tears rolled down his cheeks and into the snow, burning sorrowful depressions into the muted sludge.

He got up slowly, favoring his left side, and made his way up the steps to the door and tried the handle. It was locked, unmistakably so. He was locked out, and nobody had come to get him. Not even his mother, who he thought loved him. _But she probably doesn't_, he reminded himself, _if she let Bobby kick me out_. Suddenly, the depressing realizations of what he said hit him. He wasn't wanted. Not even his own mother cared to come find him. He tried in vain to look in the window, but he wasn't tall enough to see in. For all he knew anything could be happening, or have happened, in there. How long had he been outside? Certainly he was freezing, he could barely feel his feet enough to walk and his little fingers didn't have enough motion left in them to try to operate the complicated latch on the window. His wet pajamas clung to him, sticking to his legs and arms and torso and only worsening the coldness.

Anything could have happened in there. Anything! The thought had just sunk in. For all he knew, Bobby had beaten his mother up more. He could have even killed her. That idea in particular made his heart lurch and skip a beat, and the grip of fear clamped its unrelenting vice on the little boy. She could be dead. Julia could be dead, his mummy, the only parent he still had left.

Sniffling, with that thought still plaguing him, John began his journey down the sidewalk.

He knew his aunts lived somewhere around here. One of them even lived in the same neighborhood, at address 200-something, but he didn't know the rest of the number, and much less the street it was located on. He momentarily considered going to a stranger's house to ask for directions before he remembered his mother's instructions not to talk to strangers. While he would usually ignored the rules set by others, he felt oddly obliged now to obey them

However, there was one place John knew how to get to from where he was: Strawberry Field orphanage. He went there every Saturday with his mother, or sometimes with one of his aunts if his mother couldn't come, to see the band play in the back field. He knew it was only a street behind him and a bit to the right, closer than any other location he knew of. So, grinning in pride at his new idea, he cut across the road and shuffled through the snowy lawn between two houses to the next street- a shortcut, if you will, to save time.

John's feet were colder than ever, probably due to the walking barefoot in February across the streets of Liverpool, and to make matters worse he kept tripping, falling flat on his face onto the snow-covered ground until his pajamas were soaked in frigid water, along with his hair and face. The sky was pitch black and he could barely see where he was going. A sudden strong wind coming from in front him chilled the already very cold moisture on him, and sent him toppling back, soaking the back of his pajamas also. John was struck with the urge to start crying again, but he pushed himself up with his barely working fingers anyway and kept on, vowing not to stop anymore until he reached his destination.

Eventually, he had made his slow but sure way to the front of the orphanage. He went up to the large, beckoning front door, which he knew for a fact was always unlocked, and opened it as quietly as possible.

Strawberry Field Orphanage was a beautiful, homey place, with nice staff that did their best to make the children living there as comfortable and happy as they could. In a way it was even better for them that being with their parents would've been: they got plenty enough food, the band came every Saturday to entertain them and the rest of Liverpool, and they had a multitude of siblings, something John had personally always longed for. He tiptoes as quietly as possible down the corridor, the feeling coming slightly back to his feet as he padded across the soft, blissfully warm carpet. Eventually, he reached a storage closet, which he opened slowly and entered. The space was dark, so he pulled a chain hanging from the ceiling, flooding the small room with light from a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. He shut the door behind him and squinted as his eyes re-adjusted to the sudden brightness. Once he cracked open his almond shaped eyes, he realized that he was in a room no larger than just the bed he shared with his mother and Bobby. In one corner were a bunch of brooms and mops, haphazardly tossed about into buckets and ringed by bottles of industrial cleaner and soap. However, on the other side of the tiny room was a heap of clothes- laundry, no doubt. Not even caring whether it was dirty or clean laundry, John dove in like a child into a ball pit, pulling the chain down once more and plunging the room once more into darkness. He burrowed himself into the clothes, which were definitely clean because they had the unmistakable smell that clothes get when they're line dried on a nice day. He felt bad about getting the clothes all wet and dirty again, but not really because it couldn't be helped. The clothes did the job of the warmest blanket in the world, trapping his body heat and slowly thawing him.

And in a pile of orphan's clothes in a closet, John let the silent tears running down his cheeks lull him into a light sleep, full of soft dreams peppered with terribly realistic nightmares.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N Hello all! Special thanks to Naturelover44 for my first ever review! (p.s Follow The Sun is literally my favorite fic ever! Please update!) Well, here's a little update for you. I haven't figured out how to make chapters yet (as you can tell I'm a new publisher) so if anyone could enlighten me it would be very much appreciated.

Peace out,

Claire

February 13, 1946

He awoke slowly, not sure whether it was morning or night or even midday. The room was still dark, so he pulled the light chain. Quietly, he took off his pajama top and bottom and looked at himself. It was hard without a mirror, but the five year old could see the bruises that peppered his body. He poked one, and winced at the accompanying pain. He could feel a bump on his head, but it didn't hurt quite as much as it had before. One knee had a big bruise on it and was swollen a little bit, which probably explained why he had been walking funny.

John eyed the pajamas distastefully, as they lay in a heap on the floor, still damp and wrinkled. Instead, he rooted through the pile of clothes until he found a dark blue shirt and a pair slacks that were only a little too long for him. He rolled up the pant cuffs and sleeves as best as he could, and searched the pile for socks. He found two eventually that would do, although one was light pink and the other white. He scowled at the pink sock- how girly- but put it on nonetheless, seeing no other options.

Slowly and cautiously, so as not to get caught, John cracked the door open. The light of the hallway were on, which must mean it was daytime, but he didn't see anyone. So, quickly as possible, he darted out the closet, not bothering to close it, and scurried back out the front door.

Once outside, he could see that it was well into the day, because there were people in the streets, walking around, some with purpose and some without. A lot of people were heading to the back of the orphanage, where the real field part of Strawberry Field was. It was a Saturday, after all, and the band was probably there already. That must be why there was nobody in the hallway. John was tempted to go watch, but he had something important to do: he had to write a letter to his father.

This idea was one long in the making in John's mind, but the events of last night had only made him surer than ever that he should go through with it. If his father, who hadn't been around for the past eight months or so, would come back, then Bobby would have to leave, his parents could be together again, and they wouldn't have to worry about money or Julia getting depressed again. It all made perfect sense. So, as it would probably be unwise to try to go home and he still couldn't remember any of his relatives' addresses, John found the nearest person on the sidewalk and pulled her skirt.

"S'cuse me, miss?" John asked, not shyly at all. While some kids would be sheepish asking strangers questions, John had never been like that.

The woman whose skirt he was tugging turned around, the wooly cloth her clothes were made of swishing as she did. She had soft, blonde hair, kind eyes, was a little portly, and looked to be a bit older than John's mother did. "Yes?" she asked brightly, her eyes smiling along with her mouth. "Is there something I can help you with, little mister?"

John grinned at the woman. She seemed like the kind of person who would have a lot of friends. "Do you know where the library is?" he asked.

"Yes, I most certainly do," she said brightly. "It's just down this street and a block over on Penny Lane. Here, let me take you, I was going that way anyways." She grasped John's little hand in her larger, soft one and began leading him down from the orphanage, the opposite direction of the little boy's house. "And what," she inquired, "Might your name be, young man?" It was a question that could seem demanding in another person's voice, but sweet, teasing and polite in the woman's voice.

"I'm John Lennon," he said proudly. "Do you have a name?"

The woman laughed. It was a clear, twinkling sound like wind chimes. "Everyone has a name. Mine is Louise Harrison."

"That's really pretty," John said. "I like my mum's name better though."

"Oh? And what's that?"

"Her name's Julia. Sometimes her sisters call her Judy. I think it's nice."

"It's beautiful," reassured Louise. The day was clear and chilly, probably no more than forty degrees outside, which was actually fairly warm for it being mid-January, but cold nonetheless. The Liverpool natives around the pair were tending to their business with varying degrees of hastiness, and the snow on the walk was beginning to melt. As Louise glanced at this snow at her feet, she noticed that the boy beside her was wearing only socks and stopped. "John?" she asked.

John looked up at her with a grin on his face.

"Where are your shoes?" she inquired, bending over so she was at eye level with the little boy's small frame and trying not to make him uncomfortable.

"I lost them," muttered John, lying through his teeth. Even at his age he knew that of he told the woman what had happened the night before, she would take him away not just from Bobby but from his mother, and he didn't want that.

"How did you lose them?"

John just shrugged, not knowing of a better response.

"Aren't your feet cold?" pressed Louise. John nodded this time, as the numb feeling that he had felt the night before was returning uncomfortably to his feet.

"Very well," said Louise, with a sympathetic expression. She lifted him, and John tensed, remembering what had happened when Bobby had picked him up, but Louise held him gently, carrying him on her hip for the rest of the block until they reached the library. Once they got there, she carried him to the entrance and set him down on the welcome mat. "Are you sure you're okay?" she asked him softly. "Do you have someone to meet here?" John nodded.

"Me mum," he said, lying yet again.

"Okay," said Louise, still looking like she didn't believe him. Still though, she turned and walked back down the steps and made a left, going to wherever she needed to go. John looked at the door in front of him and pulled it open, surveying the room around him. He had been to the Liverpool Public Library many times before, and he loved all the books they had, and even though he was a hyperactive and happy-go-lucky kind of child, he adored the quiet atmosphere. After listening to Bobby yelling drunkenly every other night, it was nice to escape to a world where everything was calm and tranquil, where he could get lost in the books.

Books, however, weren't what he was looking for, and he headed back to the letter-writing station and took a piece of paper, a thick black pen, and an envelope, grabbing a stamp while he was at it. He took his materials to the nearest kid table, which, thankfully, was empty. The library itself wasn't busy at all, and there were only to other people there, not counting the librarian, who gave the shoeless John a skeptical and wary look, but evidently decided he wouldn't cause trouble and went back to her reading.

John looked at the paper and began writing.

_Dear Daddy,_

_ I really want you to come home. Mum is very sad and she stays alone a lot. She had a new boyfriend. I call him Twitchy. He is mean and he made me leave last night without shoes on, plus he hits mum a lot and me too sometimes. I still think mum likes you some so you should try to make up with her. My auntie wants to call some people who want to take me from mum but I do not want that at all. Things were a lot better when you were here. Also we don't have money which is why Twitchy made me leave. He drinks a lot and he said he was going to kill me. He also kicked me yesterday. I hate him but I love you so I want you back please._

_Love,_

_John_

_ P.S I know you forgot my birthday but I forgive you because I don't know yours either_

Satisfied with his letter, John folded it and stuffed it in the envelope. Since he wasn't sure where he lived exactly, he wrote as the return address, _John Lennon, Liverpool_. He began to address it, but he realized he didn't know his father's first name, much less where he had been the last eight months, so he just wrote _Daddy Lennon, somewhere in England_, since he was fairly certain that he hadn't left the country.

Giddy with the knowledge that he could be bringing his father home soon, John tore out of the library and down the stairs, not even caring that he had no shoes on and the concrete was probably cutting his feet. As the cold air accosted him once more, John looked around him until he saw a mailman opening the door of a mailbox in front of someone's little yellow house and put in letters.

"Wait!" he shouted, running towards the man as if his life depended on it. "Mister Mailman!"

Upon hearing this, the mailman turned around to see a shoeless little boy with slightly too long disheveled auburn hair in too big clothes, panting from running, holding up a letter, addressed in the messy scrawl of a five year old and covered in postage stamps. "Can you mail my letter to my daddy?" asked John, holding up the letter.

The mailman took the letter from John's hand and read the envelope, trying to humor him but still with a disinterested look on his face. Noticing the lack of addresses, he pointed out, "How can I mail this with no addresses on it?"

John hadn't thought of that. He looked sheepishly at the ground and shrugged.

"Sorry kiddo, I can't send an unaddressed letter," said the mailman, handing John back his letter.

"Wait, no!" John cried, trying to shove the letter back at the mailman. "You can try Blackpool! I think my grandpa said he was in Blackpool. You can bring it there!"

"Oh yeah?" asked the mailman bemusedly. "And at what address? And what's his name? We can't just go looking about for people like the goddamn police, kid. I have a route to run," he added, and began to walk back to his truck.

"No, please! You have to send it!" John shoved the letter yet again at the mailman, forcing his fingers closed around the white envelope. "Please! Or else something really bad will happen!"

The mailman scoffed and tossed the letter into a pile of gray snow on the sidewalk. John yelped at his letter being thrown and ran over to get it, but by the time he got it out and had brushed the snow off, the truck had gone.

John could no longer hold back the tears that had been threatening to spill over throughout the whole exchange with the mailman, and he sank down next to the snow, sobbing like the five year old he was. He let his body shake with great, hiccupping sobs as he cried. He cried for his father, his mother, for Bobby, and for the generally screwed up direction his young life seemed to be going in lately. He cried because nothing good ever seemed to happen and because nothing he did was ever right. He cried because of the pain in his heart and, to lesser extent, his being. John cried on the sidewalk, and it seemed like nobody cared.

That is, until a small, sheepish, voice said from beside him, "Why are you crying?"

Next to John was a boy his age. He had short, dark hair, a long nose, and wide puppy-dog eyes that were a bright but sweet-looking blue color. He was wearing a dark coat that was a little too long, a lighter colored pair of pants, and snow boots, one of which had his pants tucked into it and the other not. He was standing next to John on the sidewalk, looking worried. "I'm not," said John, wiping his eyes.

"Yes you are," said the other boy, sitting down next to him. He looked at him with blue eyes full of concern. "You shouldn't be upset. Whatever's wrong will get better, my mum always says."

John looked at the boy and asked, "What's your name?"

"I'm Richard," he said, sticking out his tongue in distaste for his name. He grinned widely."But I like to be called Ritchie better."

"My name's John," replied John.

"I saw you fighting with the mailman. He's really mean. He once yelled at my mum because she isn't married, which wasn't very nice because she was when she had me. Who were you mailing a letter to?"

"My dad," replied John, looking sadly at the letter, with its dampened envelope and smudged writing.

"Oh. Are your parents divorced too?"

"I think they are. I haven't seen my dad in a long time and my mum has a new boyfriend who's mean."

"Why is he mean?"

"Cause he drinks a lot. And he hits my mum all the time."

"Oh," said Ritchie quietly. "Does he hit you too?"

"Yes. He did a lot yesterday, see?" John lifted up his shirt and showed Ritchie the bruises that discolored it. "Then he kicked me out of the house so I slept in the orphanage last night. Then I wrote my daddy a letter but the mailman wouldn't mail it for me." John scratched his head, hugging the letter one armed to his chest.

"He really hit you hard, didn't he?" breathed Ritchie, giving John a wide-eyed look. "I was going to my friend Paul's house. His mum's a nurse, so she can make you better. Come on," he said, grabbing John's hand and pulling him along with him. As they were walking, Ritchie suddenly asked, 'Where are your shoes, John?"

"I got kicked out last night without them on," said John, looking at his freezing toes squelching in the snow below him.

"Oh." Ritchie said. "What's your favorite color?"

"Green."

"When's your birthday?"

"October ninth."

"So you're five then?"

"Yes. Are you five too?"

"Yep!"

"When did you turn five?"

"July seventh. What's your favorite food?"

"Cornflakes," said John after a short period of consideration. "How about you?"

"Maybe raspberry jam," said Ritchie thoughtfully. "What's your last name?"

"Lennon."

"Mine's Starkey. Like a star, and then a key. It's spelled that way too. How's yours spelled?"

"L-E-N-N-O-N."

"That's a lot of n's. Do you have a middle name?"

"My middle name's Winston."

"Oh. That's cool. I don't have a middle name. I wish I did though. What's your mother's name?"

"Julia."

"That's really pretty! My mum's named Elsie, which is pretty too."

"Do you have any brothers and sisters?" John asked.

"No," Ritchie said. "But I wish I did. Paul, that's whose house we're going to, he had a younger brother. His name is Peter, but everyone calls him Michael which is his middle name. It's like how Paul's first name is really James and Paul's his middle, but everyone calls him Paul anyway because his father is named James too. Paul had a friend, too, called George, who I don't really know but he has three big siblings. There's a girl called Louise who's the oldest and then he has Peter and Harry. I think it's weird that he has a brother called Harry because his last name's Harrison and Harry Harrison is weird sounding."

John thought about mentioning Louise, as perhaps she was related, but decided against it. Harrison was a pretty common name, wasn't it? "How long have you known Paul?" he asked, slush squeezing through his toes as he walked.

"A few weeks. This is the second time I've been to his house."

"Cool."

"Do you have any friends?"

"Yeah," said John, wincing as he stepped on a pebble that dug into his bare foot.

"Who are they?"

"There's my cousin, Stanley. And there's also Pete. Then Gabriel, Eric, and David go to my school and they're kind of my friends, but not really. But I went to Eric's house once."

"Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

"No. I think my mother got a baby in her last year but nothing happened."

"Oh. That's really weird. Hey, this is Paul's house."

John looked up to see what Ritchie was bounding over to, which was a small, two-story yellow house with a mailbox out front. There were houses, rather identical to what seemed to be Paul's house on both sides and across the street, as far as John could see. He realized then that he hadn't been paying attention to where he was going while he was walking with Ritchie, and now he had absolutely no idea where he was. If there was any chance of his finding his way home again, it was completely lost now, not that he really wanted to go back there at the moment.

Ritchie stood on his tiptoes to ring the doorbell, but he was too short. He turned to John and said, "Can you help me up?"

"Sure," said John, grinning. He wrapped his arms around Ritchie's legs and hoisted him as far off the ground as he could, which actually wasn't much. Nonetheless, it was enough for Ritchie to reach the doorbell, and as he rang it a two toned pealing noise sounded from inside the cheery yellow abode. A boy's voice was suddenly heard, yelling 'Ritchie's here! Ritchie's here!'

The door opened wide to reveal a small, chubby boy, grinning from ear to ear. He had dark hair, sort of like Ritchie's, that fell to just above his ears with slightly overgrown bangs that touched his eyebrows. He had big, hazel eyes that drooped down at the outer edges and, as he smiled and hugged Ritchie, John noticed one of his teeth were missing. Paul broke away from Ritchie and began leading him back into the house, but Ritchie piped up first.

"I brought someone."

Paul turned around and looked John over before grinning again, even wider this time. "Great!" he said, cheerily. "The more the merrier. I have to ask my mum though. Come in!"

John rubbed the bottom of his foot on his pants to get the snow off and padded into Paul's house, looking around nervously. He had no idea why he was so antsy about being here; usually he would jump at any chance to find a new friend to play with, a new place to be. Maybe he was still concerned about his mother. Shamefully in the little boy's mind, it had been several hours since he had even thought of his mother and what may have happened to her. Bobby had probably wound down after he got what he wanted as he usually did. However, his demands weren't usually like last night's. Perhaps his mother had escaped, too and was looking for him somewhere. The thought that she may be out there, that she may care, warmed him.

"Ritchie brought a friend over? Well, how about you introduce us?" sounded a woman's voice, lofting from the kitchen. Soon afterwards, a woman who looked serene and calm, with short, curly hair and a slightly plump figure encased in a floral print dress came out, led by her son. Instinctively John looked around for Ritchie, but he was off in a different room playing blocks with a boy of about three who must've been Paul's brother.

"Mum, this is…" Paul looked to be at a loss as he suddenly remembered he didn't know his guest's name. "This is… uh…"

"I'm John," muttered John uncomfortably.

"My name is Mary McCartney," said Paul's mother. "Where did you meet Ritchie?"

"On the street."

Mary looked a little perplexed. "Just now?"

John nodded uncomfortably. He was getting the feeling that he shouldn't be there.

"Aren't your parents missing you?"

Again, John opted for a wordless answer and shook his head sadly, looking at the floor.

"Paul, why don't you go play with Ritchie?" said Mary gently. Paul bounded off to the other room and started in on the blocks with the other two. "Now, John, why wouldn't they care? They're your parents."

"They don't care cause they kicked me out."

Mary's eyes widened. "Kicked you out?"

John nodded, wiping his eyes furiously. He was beginning to cry again, and he had absolutely no intentions of crying in front of a stranger. Alas, partly because his emotions were naturally volatile, in part because of his most recent ordeal, and also in part because of the fact that he was only five years, four months, and four days old, he couldn't help it. "I woke up last night because mum and her boyfriend were yelling at each other, so I spied on them a little and then Bobby hit my mum and she fell over so I came and asked if she was alright, then he picked me up by the shirt and threw me against the wall and then he kicked me some and told my mum that I was costing too much money and that she should put me away somewhere and she said no so he kept kicking me until she said yes-" John stopped momentarily for a ragged breath and to rub his eyes again. "Then he opened the door and threw me outside and I was wearing my pajamas and I didn't have shoes and so I cried on the sidewalk, and I tried the door again but I couldn't open it. I don't know where anyone lives so wandered around until I got to Strawberry Field and slept in a closet there and then when I woke up I took some clothes from the closet and went to the library." Mary didn't say anything, she just let him continue. "I wrote a letter to my daddy to tell him to come home and I tried to send it but the mailman wouldn't do it and he threw the letter away, and then I met Ritchie and he brought me here because Paul is really nice and you're a nurse so you can make things better, but nothing's getting better and I'm lost and I'm hungry and cold and everything hurts cause Bobby threw me, and also I'm lost and my mummy may be dead!" he was full-out wailing now, the kind of tragic sobs that are the only way to really rid oneself of a particularly bad experience. Mary hugged John close to her, letting him clutch her dress and cry until he was spent, and then just sit and sniffle quietly.

At that moment, the doorbell rang, and Mary slowly and guiltily pried John away to open the door to the same woman that had shown John to the library, except now she had a little boy with her, who had relatively neat blond hair with some strands that went in opposite directions than the rest. He had large ears that stuck out from his head, dark eyes, and was about four years old. Much to John's, who had been watching quietly from the small sofa he was on, surprise, the little boy broke away from Louise, who John presumed to be his mother, and sat next to John on the sofa, swinging his legs over the edge of the cushions. He looked at John and John looked back. The new boy had a very serious, but still nice-seeming, expression as he regarded John.

"You look sad," he pointed out.

"I am sad," replied John bitterly, hugging his knees to his chest.

"Why?"

"Nobody likes me."

"I like you."

"You just met me."

"I know. What's your name?"

"John. What's yours?"

"George Harrison. I just learned how to spell that," he announced proudly.

"How old are you?"

"Five. Almost. It's my birthday on the 24th."

"Are you Paul and Ritchie's friend?"

"I don't know," admitted George, still swinging his legs. "My mum knows Paul's mum and Paul knows Ritchie, so I guess that they want me to be friends with them. I'm not sure though, cause they're older than me and I'm shy. Are you shy?"

"No," said John, joining George in the leg-swinging exercise. "We could go meet them together."

George smiled crookedly, but genuinely. He had a smile that automatically made you like him, and John decided immediately that they would be friends. "That would be really good. You don't know them?"

"No," John said again, hopping off the couch with George close behind. "I just kind of showed up here."

"Oh. Okay then," said George, following his new friend over to the other two. John looked behind him and saw Mary and Louise talking to each other with grim, serious expressions on their faces. Mary looked over at John sympathetically and John turned away, more interested in potential friendship than the strange looks he was getting.

He sat down with George on the floor. Both Paul and Ritchie put down their respective toys and looked at the newcomers. Paul's brother stayed in the background, playing with a small wooden car and making motor noises. Ritchie was the first to speak, stating "Paul, this is John. I met him on the street." He looked over at George, and before Paul and John could make introductions themselves, said rather bluntly, "I don't know who you are."

"George," whispered the blond boy nervously, playing with a button on his jacket which he had neglected to take off.

"Hi, George!" said Paul brightly. He seemed to be of an optimistic sort, which contrasted with the expression of a perpetual migraine headache that he wore on his face. "Do you want to make a tower? I have lots of blocks. I got them for Christmas."

"Sure," said both John and George simultaneously, each grasping blocks and stacking them on top of the few that Paul and Ritchie had already put on top of each other. The tower kept falling over, but none of the boys minded, and they just kept talking about anything and everything and nothing at all. All four boys had lost track of time when Mary poked her head through the doorway and requested for John to come back into the main room. Rather reluctantly, John put down his block and sauntered over to where Mary was. She led him into the living room from the kitchen area he'd been playing in. In this room, Louise and another man John didn't recognize were sitting on the sofa, and they looked up when John came in.

"John, could you please lift your shirt up?" asked Mary softly. John complied, rolling up his too-big dark blue shirt hem up almost up to his neck. Louise gasped and the new man winced in empathy. Mary herself looked worried, sad, and angry at the same time.

Wishing desperately for a change of subject, John turned to the new man and asked him, not mincing his words whatsoever, "Who are you?"

Even in the very tense situation, the man chucked in good humor and reached over to shake John's hand. "I'm Jim McCartney," he said with a smile. "I'm Paul's father, and Miss Mary's husband."

"Oh. That's cool."

"John, what's your mother's name?"

This question John knew the answer to. "Julia Lennon. Although her last name used to be Stanley."

"Stanley," said Louise thoughtfully. "As in George and Annie Stanley?"

John beamed. "Those are my grandparents! But my grandma died a little bit ago," John's expression fell a little bit. "And her boyfriend's called Bobby, although I'm not sure if it's his real name."

"Do you know where you live?" this question came from Jim.

John shook his head. "In Woolton, but I don't know the street."

Louise looked over to Jim and whispered something. While John liked Louise very much, the whispering irritated him. He didn't like secrets a whole lot unless he was the one telling them or the one they were being told to. He scowled to himself, but didn't say anything. The three people in front of him were so nice, and he didn't want to be rude and have them kick him out too.

"I think I know where they are," said Mary, interrupting the whispering between Louise and her husband. Apparently she didn't like secrets either. "That's very far away, John," she added. "How did you get all the way over here?"

"Walked," mumbled John. He felt naughty for some reason.

"John, Jim and I are going to go find your mother so she can take you home, okay?"

"No!" yelped John. "I don't want to see Bobby ever again! He tried to kill me and he hits my mummy! All the time! Plus he kicked me out and it's not my fault that I cost money to have!"

The adults looked surprised at this outburst, and while usually they would reprimand a child for yelling, they let it go for now. "John," asked Jim. "Don't you want to see your mother? We could get her and not Bobby if you like."

John beamed. "That'd be really gear."

"Boys!" called out Mary into the other room. Ritchie, Paul, and George abandoned their tower (which hadn't really gotten any taller in John's absence- if anything it was shorter) and bounded out, with Michael tripping behind them in the just-learned-to-run fashion common in most all two or three year olds. "Paul, your father and I have to go out for a little while, but we'll be back very soon," she said to her oldest son. "Mrs. Harrison is going to watch you guys, okay?"

All of the little boys nodded, even John.

"I'll see you boys later," said Mary. "Be good," she smiled warmly as she kissed her sons on the cheek. Paul looked embarrassed and wiped his cheek once his mother pulled away. John was quite baffled by this. Why would his mother kissing him make Paul uncomfortable? All he personally wanted was to see his mother, alive and smiling and carefree as he preferred to remember her, hugging him. He missed the smell of her perfume, the soft, spare scent of lilacs and pine needles, and (in his opinion) wheat.

Mary and Jim left, and Louise announced her intentions to make everyone a snack. As he ran back into the foyer animatedly with the boys, he smiled widely. Yes, here John Lennon could be happy. There was nobody that yelled, or hit, or even dared to look unhappy. The little yellow house was as bright and cheery as its paint job, and John liked it. He could get used to this.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N Ahh, yes, second update in a day! (sort of... it's 12:15...) well, anyway, here you go! Next chapter should be up on the 21st or the 22nd.**

**-Claire**

About an hour later, the boys had eaten the snack Louise gave them and had given up building their tower. Michael was down for a nap, and the rest of them were sitting in the living room listening to the radio. Little Orphan Annie was on, and although none of them really were old enough to understand it they all liked listening to the riveting gunshot sounds.

"You didn't tell me where you're from," said Paul once a commercial came on.

Knowing this question was directed at him, John looked over at the boy and replied, "Woolton."

"Oh," said Paul. "Then why are you all the way over here?"

John simply shrugged, not really wanting to delve into the sordid subject of his coming to Paul's.

"Let's play favorites!" interjected Ritchie, bouncing up and down excitedly.

"We already played that!" said John.

"I know," said Ritchie, grinning. "But not with Paul and George! What's your favorite color, George?"

George looked surprised at being spoken to- up until recently, he had been relatively silent when it came to conversation. Despite this, however, he replied thoughtfully with "Purple."

"Purple!" exclaimed Paul. "That's a girl color."

"No it's not!" said George defensively.

"John says he likes green best," said Ritchie. "Green is the opposite of purple."

"No it's not!" this came from Paul, who was crossing his arms and looking at Ritchie indignantly. "My teacher told us about color wheels on Tuesday, and she said that purple was the opposite of… uh… wait, I know it…"

"Orange," muttered George.

"Orange!" said Paul loudly. "I remembered!"

"No you didn't! I told you!"

"Oh yes? Prove it!"

"You're a liar!"

"No I'm not!"

"Liar!"

"Not!"

"Liar!"

"NOT!"

"LIAR!"

"NOT!"

"LIIIIIAAARRRRR!" George wailed.

Paul completely gave up on words and instead pounced on George, pinning the smaller boy quickly. Alarmed at the sudden change of events, John grabbed Paul's arms and tried to pull him off of George. Wanting to join in, Ritchie tried to pull George out from under Paul, who was attempting to hit him now. Paul suddenly wheeled back and threw John off, who fell backwards and hit the floor. Angered at this, Ritchie pounced on Paul and the both of them fell on top of John, who winced at the sudden weight. The absence of Paul freed George, who promptly jumped on top of the other three. It wasn't long until they were all yelling and biting and hitting and kicking at each other.

"BOYS!" came a thunderous shout, and all four warring toddlers immediately stopped fighting and looked up to see Louise Harrison, standing in the doorway and looking extremely upset. "I want you to tell me what happened. Now!"

At once, John, Paul, George and Ritchie all started telling her what happened.

"Never mind," sighed Louise exasperatedly. "I want you all to apologize to each other."

All four boys mumbled 'sorry' under their breath and averted their gazes to the floor in embarrassment. Satisfied, Louise left the room, but not before warning them that the next fight they got into would mean a 'damn good whacking'.

"She doesn't really mean that," said George once she was out of earshot. "She always says it, but it's not true really."

The others all nodded in relief and sat back down in front of the radio, all past anger forgotten. They weren't sitting there listening for very long before the front door opened to the unmistakable sound of grownup footsteps, accompanied by a worried, feminine voice that called out, "John? Baby, are you here?"

George, Paul and Ritchie all looked over at John at this, presumably for an update on who the owner of this voice was, but before they could John had jumped up from the carpet and bounded into the foyer, where the unmistakable Julia Lennon stood. Not caring who saw him, John ran into her arms and they hugged each other tightly. When they were done, John scrutinized his mother's face. The bloodied bruise on her cheek that had been there the night before was gone, cleverly hidden behind a layer of makeup that John could only see very close up. Her eyeliner was running a little bit from the moisture in her eyes, and her red hair that she shared to a degree with her son was brushed but not styled, and hung around her face in soft wisps.

Julia picked up her son and held him in her arms. She turned to Mary and Jim, who had watched this whole spectacle and were smiling at the reuniting of mother and son. "Thank you so much," said Julia.

There was a scuffling and some whispers behind John, and he turned to see his new friends peeking in from the doorway. John waved and smiled, but they scurried away quickly due Jim, who was shooting them a stern look from across the room.

"Oh, please," said Mary. "It was the least we could do."

"John runs away sometimes. I've told him not to, but he still does. Puts me to a nervous wreck, every time! I suppose he inherited my mischievousness!" Julia laughed, a beautiful sound like a pealing bell, but it didn't sound like it usually did. It seemed, somehow, forced.

"Yes, well John told me something about being kicked out… and hit. He said that your boyfriend tried to kill him and put him outside in the snow in the middle of the night." Mary looked skeptical.

"He also said that he beat you," interjected Jim, adding to his wife's voiced concerns.

Julia laughed again, nervously. "That imagination of his! John's always liked to make up stories, it just gets a little out of hand sometimes. I'm sure he meant nothing by it, he probably just wanted a rise out of you. And, as you can see, we're both fine."

"Little John here showed us bruises on his ribs… do you care to explain those?"

"You know how unsafe those cursed swings are, especially in the public playgrounds. I'm afraid one broke on him a few days ago, nearly tossed the poor boy halfway across the park!"

John was very confused at this, at why his mother was lying. It was certainly baffling- his mother was always honest, always happy and cheerful, the exact opposite of what she acting like now. John almost spoke up, but thought better of it. If she was lying, there had to be a good reason.

"Yes…" said Mary, not looking like she fully believed the redhead standing before her with a boy on her hip. "Well, then I suppose I owe you an apology, for doubting you. I'll leave you too it. I'll see you later, John," she added to the small boy.

"We're leaving?" said John meekly. He didn't want to leave- he had made friends, and he wanted to spend some more time with them. "I want to stay!" he whined at his mother. It wasn't fair! First she lets Bobby throw him out, then she lies about it, and now she's taking him away from his friends?

"Afraid so, Johnny," replied Julia, kissing her son's forehead. "We have to be at your grandfather's house in half an hour."

"Catch you later, sport," said Jim, winking and ruffling John's hair. John grinned and stuck his tongue out playfully at the man- there was something about him that John liked very much, that reminded him of his father in a way. Jim laughed upon seeing John's way of saying goodbye and stepped back, putting his hands in his pockets. Mary stood next to him, with her arms crossed in front of her, looking angry for some reason. She said nothing in regards to John's leaving, she just looked sternly at Julia.

"Goodbye!" called Julia as she walked out the door with John still in her arms. "And thank you again, so much, for finding my son. Perhaps one day we can meet up for a cup of tea, and listen to some good records!" she smiled good-naturedly at the McCartney's.

"Perhaps," returned Mary carefully, not changing her expression. Julia smiled and nodded in response before turning away to go down the street, clutching her son tightly. Once the door closed behind her, she sped up and darted into an alley and set a confused John in front of her.

"Listen to me, very carefully," said Julia. She looked deadly serious, an expression John had never seen on her face. "You can never speak of this. You can never say anything about what Bobby did last night, about what he said, or about his drinking. You can never, ever, ever, say anything about it or anything that will happen with him in the future. Do you hear me?" she was shaking John's shoulders, and a twinge of fear ran through him.

"Or what?" he whispered.

"Or else bad people will come and take you away. They will come and take you away from me, and you can never see me, or your aunts, or your cousins, or your grandparent or your father ever again. They'll put you in a bad place, with bad people who will hit you and be mean to you."

"Like Bobby?" said John, looking hard into his mother's eyes. "He hits me too, and he's really mean."

"Don't say that!" she hissed. "He only hits you if you're bad."

This was new information for John. "What bad things did I do?" he asked. Hadn't he been pretty good lately? At least he had thought so.

"You were bad," said Julia offhandedly. "And if you're not bad he won't hit you. But if you're bad you will. And remember," her voice got low and serious again. "About the bad people who will take you away. Do you love me, John? Do you love your mother?"

John nodded furiously, his eyes filling with tears. He didn't want to be taken away.

"Then you won't tell anybody ever about what happens in the house. Am I getting through to you?"

Trying desperately not to start crying, John nodded again, his lips forming a pout.

"I said," Julia hissed, "Am I getting through to you?"

"Yes," said John shakily.

"What was that?"

More definitely this time, John repeated himself. "Yes."

"What won't you do?"

"Tell people what happens with Bobby and that he drinks."

"Or else what?"

"Bad mean people who hit me will come and take me away forever." His tears were falling of their own accord now, in warm trails down his cheeks. He was so confused, so conflicted. Was he bad? What had he done that was bad? And who were the bad people, and why would they want to take them, and where would they take him? What had he done? Why was his mother being so uncharacteristically harsh and cruel? Why would she agree with Bobby, who hit her? Through the dim alleyway lighting John reached timidly to her face and rubbed her cheek, the peach-toned makeup beginning to rub off onto his hand before his hand was deftly slapped away. Through the small patch of cosmetic he had rubbed off, John could see a big black bruise, and he winced in empathy.

"Does that hurt? Why did he hit you?"

Julia's eyes softened. "It's okay, love," she said, lifting her son up. "We're going home now. Maybe later we can go out for ice cream."

"No Bobby?" said John hopefully.

Biting her lip and trying to cover her newly exposed bruise with her hair, Julia carried her son out into the light of the street, where ordinary people went about their ordinary business and didn't give the mother-son duo a second thought. "I don't know, Johnny," she sighed. "Maybe."

"Oh," said John, slightly crestfallen. "Okay then."

And with that, the two walked the several blocks home to their house.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N Hello, readers! Here's another installment, as promised. As for future updates, well, I have midterms starting Thursday (eek!) but I'll definitely have at least two more chapters up by next Sunday! And remember, reviews, reviews, reviews! They mean the world to a little dork like me!**

**P.S- Naturelover422- I did review your story several times, but before I started using my accound so I just used random names... I think one of them was Emma, and another was Jamie.**

**Disclaimer: I own a laptop, four packets of Ramen noodles, and a copy of Revolver. Not the Beatles.**

**-Claire 3**

February 25, 1946

It was a Saturday, and John had remembered it was George's birthday. So, he had wheedled and pleaded his mother until she brought him here, to his house (the address of which they had found out by asking neighbors), and excitedly, John rang the doorbell and bounced up and down, hoping that his new friend would answer his door.

John had been bad recently. Or at least, according to Bobby he had been. As for Julia, she had been strangely quiet on the matter, and whenever Bobby would begin to hit or kick or yell at John for his crimes, whether drunkenly or not, she would retreat into a corner and cover her ears as she cried silently. John had been trying his best to be good for her, so Bobby wouldn't have to punish him and she wouldn't have to be sad. But it hadn't been working, because no matter what John did to get on his good side, something the matter could always be found in John, it seemed.

Just then, the door swung open wide to show a small boy, blond-haired and with big ears wearing a newspaper hat that was unmistakably George.

"Johnny!" he exclaimed, tackling his friend around the neck with a hug. "You remembered my birthday!"

Grinning from ear to ear, John handed George a box, shoddily wrapped in a strange combination of wrapping paper, old school projects, tissue, and newspaper that was practically falling off but held together with a length of purple ribbon. "I got you a present!" he said proudly. "And I wrapped it too! Plus I put on a purple ribbon, because I know you like purple."

"You're right! Purple's awesome! I don't care what Paul and Ritchie say," he added defiantly, clutching his still yet unopened present to his chest. "I'm five now, so I'm mature." He suddenly looked up and noticed Julia standing next to John, eyeing the two boys with an amused expression on her face. "Hi, John's mum!" he said, before taking her hand and kissing her knuckles- a move he had learned from his older brothers, no doubt.

Julia laughed genuinely and knelt down to her son's level. "What a charmer you are! And what might your name be, handsome?"

He blushed. "I'm George," he said, suddenly nervous. Apparently his moment of gutsiness had faded.

"And I'm Julia," she said with a big smile on her face. "Why don't you lead me and John in?" she asked.

"Okay," replied the birthday boy. To Julia, he said, "A bunch of grownups are in the kitchen over there, so you can talk to them if you want. Ritchie and Paul are in the other room!" he added to John, grabbing his hand and leading him over. "Plus there are a couple other boys too, but I don't know them really well so I don't talk to them too much."

"Hi Johnny!" said Ritchie brightly, looking up from a piece of paper he was coloring. "Can I call you that?" before John could respond, he added, "We're all coloring. See?"

John sat down on the floor next to Ritchie and looked at the paper. It appeared that between them, the boys only had one crayon each, so Ritchie's paper was covered with what really only amounted to a bunch of red scribbles.

"Red's my favorite color," he proclaimed picking up the crayon again and adding more scribbles. "You can have the green crayon cause you like green, and Paul had the blue one cause he likes blue and George likes purple but there's no purple crayon so he used my red one and then Paul's blue one and it makes purple."

John picked up a piece of paper and the green crayon and began doodling a picture of Paul on it. He traced the shape of his bowl-shaped haircut, his droopy eyes that, at least to John, looked a little like Ringo's. He was about to draw his nose when his paper was suddenly taken away.

"Hey!" he yelped in protest. He looked up to see Ritchie holding the paper, seemingly mesmerized.

"Whoa," Ritchie said. That's really super-good. It looks like Paul."

"It_ is _Paul," returned John proudly.

"Really?" said Paul, leaning over to look over Ritchie's shoulder. "Hey! It is me! Where's the nose?" He looked at John innocently with his gap-toothed grin.

"It's not done yet," muttered John, quickly snatching his paper back. He drew in the nose and a smile and gave it back to Paul. "See? Now it's done." Paul clutched the paper close to his chest and grinned.

"I'm gonna keep this forever and ever," he announced.

"You should be an artist," commented George, trying vainly to blend red and blue crayons.

"Yeah!" said Ritchie, jumping up. "You could be an artist and draw all the time! And everyone would know you and you'd be famous!"

"I'm going to be a music player," said Paul. "Like my daddy is."

"Your dad sells cotton," corrected George.

"Well, yeah," said Paul, looking embarrassed. "But he also plays music. He has a band and everything."

"Can I be in your band, Paulie?" asked Ritchie.

"Depends," said Paul carefully. "What can you play?"

"I dunno yet," said Ritchie thoughtfully.

"My dad wants me to be an electrician," said George, giving up on his crayons and beginning to play with a ball-and-cup game that he wasn't very good at but seemed to be enjoying nonetheless. "But I don't, cause it sounds boring and I don't know what electricians do."

"I think they make electricity," said John. "Like, if the electricity's broken, then they fix it."

"Oh," said George. "I want to be a racecar driver and go really fast. My parents say it's dangerous though, but I'd wear a helmet."

"I'm going to be a hairdresser," said Ritchie. "I like hair." He reached over to George and started playing with the little boy's light blond hair. "See? I could give you a haircut!"

"I don't want a haircut!" protested George, covering his hair with his hands. "Keep your scissors to yourself, thank you very much!"

"Pleeeeaaase, Georgie?" asked Ritchie. "I could make it really cool! I can cover your ears up!"

"I like my ears!"

"I think Ritchie should give George a haircut! What do you think, Johnny?" asked Paul.

John didn't really think it was a very good idea, but he joined in anyways to gain acceptance. "Yeah!"

"No!" wailed George, running out of the room. The other three boys ran out after him, and they all found themselves in the kitchen, with George hiding behind his mother's skirt and the others, panting, as the subjects of odd looks from the adults assembled.

"Boys," said Louise. "What's going on?"

"They want to cut my hair!" cried George loudly from his hiding place.

"No haircuts today," said Louise, coaxing her youngest out from behind her. "Go play nice." She laughed, seemingly in a very good mood for the time. "Enjoy your birthday, George."

The four boys went back out into the living room and started playing blocks like they had done at Paul's house, except they weren't making a tower this time, they were trying to make a castle. Blocks didn't really afford a whole lot of architectural freedom, but with the combined imaginations of four little boys, it was a beautiful home fit for a princess.

Just then, Paul's mother Mary and Julia walked across the living room past the boys together, talking in hushed and tense voices with each other. This piqued Paul, Ritchie, George and John's interest (Paul and John's especially, as it was their mothers in question) and they quietly tiptoed after them.

Mary and Julia stopped in the small hidden hallway next to a closet, unaware of the eavesdropping boys just around the corner.

"I don't think you understand, Mrs. McCartney," said Julia shortly. "He's my son, not yours, and therefore my responsibly. So I suggest you leave us all alone."

Grimacing in distaste, Mary returned with "He may not be my son, but I am a mother, and I know what would be best for a child, it appears better than you do."

"Bobby doesn't do anything, I told you-"

Mary cut her short. "Don't you think for a second I believe you with that swing story! A little boy would not make up a story like what I heard, that I know! If that man abuses you," she said, her voice softening. "I really would like to help you, and John. It's not healthy to live like this- please, Julia! Just leave him! Move out! Go to your parents,"

"I know you mean well," sighed Julia. "But it's fine, it's really and truly fine. He just… he had a different method of punishment that some people do. He really loves me, Mary, and he likes John, he's just like that when he drinks."

"Drinks!" scoffed Mary. "You can't be living with a drunk!"

"He's not a drunk!" said Julia. "And besides, I haven't told him yet, but I- I'm pregnant. It's his. And already with John, I'm divorced, I'm living in sin, if I leave Bobby now, I'll be the whore of Liverpool!"

Although most of the conversation was too quick for John to process in time, this part he understood. His mother was pregnant. And it didn't take a genius to know that her being pregnant would mean he would have a little brother, or sister. He hoped for the former, but a sister would also be nice too. He looked at the other boys next to them and they all exchanged giddy looks, happy with the rush of having heard something they weren't supposed to have heard.

However, it was cut short when suddenly Julia stalked out and grabbed her son's hand. "Come on, John," she said haughtily. "We're leaving."

"But mum!" he whined.

"No buts!" she snapped in return, still dragging him along. "Get your shoes."

Slightly teary-eyes, John pulled on his little boots. From behind him he heard a chorus of goodbyes from his new friends. He was about to respond when he was pulled out the door and down the sidewalk without so much as a warning.

"Mum!" he protested as she dragged him along the sidewalk. "I wanted to stay!"

"Too bad."

"But they're my friends! I like them! I like them better than Bobby!"

"Don't call him that. He's your daddy now."

"No! He's not my daddy, he never will be! I hate him! I wish he was dead!" Suddenly, Julia's hand flew across John's cheek. It wasn't as hard as the slaps that Bobby dealt, but the pure shock of his sweet, loving mother hitting him was enough for John to burst into tears and stop walking. Instead, he sat on the sidewalk and bawled.

Julia muttered a curse word under her breath and lifted up her son, ignoring the looks she was getting from the passerby, and practically ran home, talking to herself the whole time about how mad Bobby was going to be, and alternately pleading with John to stop crying. Soon they had reached the front door and Julia opened it, hoping fervently that Bobby would be at work- but he was home early again (as it seemed these days he was either coming home late smelling of perfume or being forced out early for being drunk).

"Why the _fuck_ is that son of yours crying?!" he asked loudly, his words slurring slightly.

"He's- he's just tired," stuttered Julia. "A nap- I'll put him to bed…"

"No, I'll put the fucker to bed," growled Bobby, getting up from his position at the kitchen table and stumbling over to the duo drunkenly. John shrunk back into his mother and clutched a fistful of her dress, wishing he was back at George's house more than anything. Bobby hadn't shaved in days, and while he was normally thin and harmless looking, these frequent alcohol-fuelled rampages of his turned him in John's eyes to a giant, looming monster.

John wailed, as loudly and high-pitched as he could, to try to scare Bobby away, or to attract help, or possibly both, but his scream was cut short when he was ripped away from Julia, who was still vainly pleading with Bobby to let him go. He yelled and kicked and fought, but it was useless. Bobby's grip was iron.

With a sharp sensation of pain, John felt himself hit the floor, to his mother's frightened wails. She tried to intervene, but Bobby wheeled back and hit her across the face, sending her to the floor where she remained.

"Mum!" whined John. He was scared for her safety, sure, but more pressing to him was that without her in the game he had nobody to talk Bobby down. The man in front of him would do whatever he wanted, and there was nothing in John's terribly limited power he could do to stop it. "Mum! Wake up, please!"

"She's not going to help you now," cackled Bobby evilly. John shrunk back in a corner and hugged his knees to his chest.

"What are you going to do?" he asked meekly.

"Teach you a lesson," he replied flippantly, before deftly dumping a bucket of water all over the little boy. It was cold water- freezing cold, like ice on his skin, and John yelped in surprise, curling up even tighter against the frigidity.

Then, more water was poured, but this time it was hot, so hot that John could practically feel it burning his skin. It was so much worse than the cold, and John screamed a blood-curdling scream, but still, nobody came, and his mother still stayed on the floor, stirring only slightly. She must've hit her head.

And the cycle repeated, over and over again. Cold, hot, cold, hot, it all washed over John, soaking the kitchen floor, freeing him, thawing him, scalding him, all like knives stabbing into him.

"Don't cry!" hissed Bobby. But John couldn't help it. "Take it like a man!" He lifted the little boy and set him on the table, then proceeded to whip him with a belt, over and over again, unceasingly. And no matter how much John tried not to cry, each hit stung like a hundred hornets and made tears fall from his eyes against his will.

It continued. How long, John didn't know. He stopped with the belt and started just punching him, kicking him. And after a while, little John lost the will to keep fighting it, and eventually out of pure exhaustion the tears stopped falling from his eyes, the sobs ceased to escape his lips. And, once Bobby realized this, that John had quit crying like he wanted, he stopped kicking the boy and leaned next to John, his alcohol-tainted breath in his ear, and spoke.

"It's about time, you little shit," he whispered, his words acidic. "You fat, ugly, stupid little shit." And with that, he kicked John in the head one last time, and the world went blissfully dark.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N I know, it's way too short, but I couldn't think of anything else to add to this chapter. Thank you all for the wonderful reviews!**

**-Claire**

John awoke slowly. His dreams had been soft and sweet, although come now he couldn't remember any of them. The blackness behind his eyelids was replaced by muted, fuzzy color, and then by a more defined reality. Before him was his mother, murmuring his name repeatedly, her eye darkened and a worried expression on her face. Once she saw her son's eyes opening, she hugged him fiercely, only breaking away when he whimpered softly at the pressure.

"Oh, John," she said, wiping relieved tears from her eyes. "I thought that- oh, my son, I love you baby, I'm so sorry, he didn't mean it John, he really didn't."

John didn't reply, he just looked around him and took in his surroundings. He was in the bedroom the three of them (him, Julia, and Bobby) all slept in. The room was slightly disheveled, like there had been somewhat of a scuffle between the two adults in his absence, but certainly not a major one. There was light coming into the room from the window, but it was very faint, like it was extremely early in the morning.

"What time…" John trailed off. He had no energy, despite having slept. Or was it really sleeping, unconsciousness? Or was it just that, an in-between area where no rest would be achieved?

"It's four, four-thirty… I don't know really. I just woke up this evening, and Bobby was passed out, and you were there… and there was blood, and I'm just so glad you're all right!" she hugged him again, gentler this time than the first. "Where does it hurt, baby?" she said softly.

The little boy coughed, and winced at the action. "Lots of places… Where's Bobby?" he desperately wanted a change of subject at this point.

"He's still asleep. I'm not making you go to school today, sweetie, okay? We can have a fun day."

"It's Sunday," said John, confused.

"No, you've been out for a day… that's why I was worried!"

A day? He had been unconscious for all of Sunday? How was that possible? "Oh. Okay."

"John, I'm going to go check on Bobby. Just rest, okay? I'll be up soon." Julia kissed her son on the forehead and quietly left the room, softly shutting the bedroom door behind her. However, John didn't stay down and rest. The second she left he was up, ignoring the woozy feeling that accompanied the change in position. He stripped off his clothes, which were still damp from the water, and stood in front of a full length mirror. In front of him wasn't John Winston Lennon- it was a scared boy he didn't recognize.

His hair was stringy with dampness and blood, and the reddish-blond locks clung to the sides of his face. His head pounded terribly, like his brain was trying to leak out of his ears. His skin was tinged a pinkish-red color from the hot water, and darkened at his ribs and arms with large, black bruises. And at that moment, he realized that Bobby was right. He was ugly, he was fat, he was stupid, all those things. He deserved it. If he wasn't such an idiot, if he wasn't so stupid and ugly and fat, then he wouldn't get hit. So that's what Julia had meant. He was getting punished for being inherently bad, not for doing bad things. No matter what good things he did, he'd still be bad. He was bad, and he deserved it. He deserved it.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Thank you all for all the lovely reviews! I'll leave you to it! Please enjoy :)**

September 20, 1948

Nearly two years had gone by, and each one no different from the previous. Julia had a baby girl, who was named after herself, and John loved his baby sister. One of the things he was the most grateful for was the fact that Bobby didn't yet hit the ten month old girl like he did the others.

In the house, the condition fluctuated, day to day. Some days Bobby was happy and fun. He'd listen to the radio with Julia, help John do his math homework, and play peek-a-boo with baby Julie, but those days were scarce. They came once in a blue moon and were a treat, a nice little break from reality- the only bad thing about it being that soon it'd all be gone. Julia had gotten a job as a waitress in a café not far from John's school, and he didn't see her very often because of it. The only reason she had taken the job was because Bobby had been fired for his drinking habit, and they desperately needed the small amount of money Julia's work brought in just to keep themselves in a house, in clothes and fed, and this it only did barely. Most days, John would come home from school and Bobby would be drunk, yelling so loudly it woke up baby Julie, and usually John would be hit- he knew why, it was because he was bad. He was six now, less than a month away from seven, and despite his best efforts to be better John just couldn't seem to please the unpredictable man. He hated Bobby with all his might, but he hated himself far more.

Alfred (as John had learned his father's name was) was gone for good- off to New Zealand. Sometime about a year and a few months ago, he had come and tried to take John away- of course, Julia had found him out and they screamed at each other on the dock. They shouted horrible profanities and insults and accusations, before John was finally given an ultimatum.

_He stood on the dock, tears of confusion at seeing his parents acting so hateful to each other threatening to spill over his eyes. Before him, Alfred kneeled and looked at his son with kind eyes, his thin face inches away from the boy. Very carefully, he spoke._

_"John," he said. "You have to choose."_

_"Choose?"_

_"Yes, Johnny. You have to choose."_

_Julia knelt next to her former love-turned-enemy and looked at her son, her eyes pleading. "John," she whispered. "If you choose him, he'll take you far away, and you'll never see me ever again. You'll never see me or the rest of your family or your friends ever, as long as you live."_

_"And if you choose your mother," interjected Alfred. "You'll never see me."_

_"Ever?" John asked. Ever seemed like a long time._

_Both of his parents nodded at him and looked at him with the same expression, one of hope, love, and pleading desperation all mixed into one._

_If he went with his mother, he wouldn't have to go anywhere. He could continue his life as he had been so far, without his father- but would he miss his father? He hadn't seen the man since he was three, or was it two, and he hadn't been much worse for the ware. Except for Bobby. If he stayed with his mother, he would have to take Bobby with her, and he certainly didn't want that. Yes, John certainly wanted to get away from Bobby, and besides, what ties did he have here anyway? He hadn't seen Paul, George, or Ritchie in almost a month, and was beginning to think they didn't really like him anymore. Plus, the rest of his family didn't like him either. Nobody liked him- except for two people. And he had to choose._

_"Daddy." He said, with a sense of finality._

_Alfred smiled, and Julia covered her mouth with her hand. "John, sweetie… I love you. Are you sure?"_

_John reconsidered, very briefly, before saying again, "Daddy."_

_He felt Alfred scoop him up and bounce him on his hip, whispering 'atta boy' in his ear in his approval. Julia simply looked up at the two, a look of horror and abandonment and desperation on her face, before she crumbled in defeat and began to walk away._

_But as his mother walked away, something changed in John. He couldn't leave her. So, he jumped out of his father's arms and ran over to her, raw tears streaming down his face. And as he left the docks in his mother's arms, Alfred Lennon faded into the distance._

And that had been the end of that. He hadn't seen him since.

School was great. While John didn't like the learning exactly, it was escape. It was a heavenly nirvana to which he visited each and every day, for seven hours, and neither Bobby nor his mother could do a thing about it. There, he could be himself. He could be the happy-go-lucky John Winston Lennon, not the crying recluse he was reduced to when he went to his house. The teachers loved his drawings, and besides- he had friends.

Friends. Once he started his first year in the local primary school, he was ecstatic to learn that George, Paul and Ritchie were all in his class, and they were like the four musketeers, united as one against the world. They were all the best of buds, and nothing could separate them, whether it be meddling family, angry teachers, or the occasional schoolyard bully- and John was proud to call those three lads his friends (although he acted too prideful to admit it).

He hadn't told them about what home was like. There were times when he wanted to, sure, but the thought of the bad people his mother always warned would take him away loomed large over his head. And besides- those boys couldn't keep a secret to save their lives, and Paul's mother Mary had already called out Julia on it repeatedly, even threatened to contact the bad people. It was for this reason that John avoided her as a general rule, something he felt bad about, but it couldn't be helped.

All four of the small boys had changed greatly in the past years. Paul was no longer the chubby little five-year-old he had been upon meeting John. His hair was thicker and even darker, and his face thinner. His doe eyes, however, were still the sad hazel they had been all his life. George had grown into his ears slightly, and they didn't quite stick out so much from his pale hair, which had darkened somewhat and grown longer. Ritchie had stayed pretty much the same- he hadn't grown quite as much as the other boys, but as the oldest, he was the most matured-looking, even if he didn't act that way. His hyperactivity, too, was slightly less than before, and while he was still cheery and optimistic he wasn't quite as bouncy. As for John, his hair was redder, less blonde, and he had grown to be the tallest out of the boys, a full centimeter over George, who was half a centimeter taller than Paul who was three taller than Ritchie. The biggest change, however, was in his eyesight- his vision had deteriorated to the point of him requiring wire-rimmed spectacles that he loathed, although he was assured by others they looked 'cute'.

John had met Ritchie's mother, Elsie her name was, and she was a delight. Julia liked her too- the women had something to bond over, being divorced from their first husbands. It was Ritchie's house that they all met up at the most. Even though Paul's house was biggest, his father disliked large gatherings, and George's house was much too hectic, what with all the children in it. And since John's house was completely out of the question, Ritchie's place was their main hang-out by default. But it was very nice and warm there- Elsie loved them, and made them cookies whenever her allotted rations would allow.

It was Elsie Gleave-Starkey's house that the four boys were at now, on the cool September Tuesday that it was. While Ritchie and George were off in the kitchen, eating cookies, John and Paul sat in the living room and listened disinterestedly to a classical music broadcast on the radio.

Over the past two years, the two boys had become very close, and now, at seven years old, they were best friends. It wasn't like they had a lot in common, but since that fateful day two Februaries ago, they had formed a tight bond between them, like the bond that united their whole group together but stronger in a way, a thing just between the two of them that united them as brothers.

"What's your sister like? I haven't seen her," said Paul with a grin. His missing tooth had grown in, only to be replaced by two new holes that were showing the beginnings of shiny adult teeth. It was much to John's chagrin that he was yet to lose a tooth (excepting the one incisor that had been 'accidentally' knocked out).

"She doesn't do much," replied John, leaning against the wall. "But she can crawl now, so I can play with her. Julie likes dolls though, not racecars."

"Well," Paul said thoughtfully. "Maybe you could try to make her like racecars. Or you could put a doll in a racecar and she'd think that's cool."

John wrinkled his nose. "No way am I putting one of her stupid dolls in my racecar. Besides, they're too big for that. They'd just fall off."

"Hey, Johnny?" said Paul. He was the only one John let call him by that nickname. His mother used to say it, but recently the two of them had been more distant, as she preferred to spend all her time with Bobby and sometimes Julie than with her firstborn. And with that, most of Bobby's anger had switched from her to John. Of course she still cared for him, and put band-aids on his cuts and kissed his forehead and apologized, but an integral trust he used to feel toward her was simply gone, and with it went her privileges for calling him Johnny.

"Mm?" replied John disinterestedly, slowly starting to fall asleep. He didn't usually get a lot of sleep at home- there was too much yelling, and generally if he fell asleep, Bobby would wake him up in one of the more unpleasant of fashions.

"I love you," proclaimed Paul.

"Gross."

"No, like you're my best friend."

"Oh," said John in understanding. "You're my best friend too."

"So we're best friends together?" Paul said hopefully.

"Yeah. Let's shake on it," suggested John, holding his hand out. Paul took it and they shook, grinning at each other as they pumped each other's arms ridiculously vigorously, getting more rowdy by the minute until they broke away and started laughing, not for any particular reason. It was one of those things, where nothing had really happened but it was funny anyway.

"What's funny?" George said inquisitively, sitting down next to his hysterical friends. "By the way, me and Ritchie heard you say that you two are best friends. And I'd like you to know that if you two are best friends, then me and Ritchie will be best friends too and leave you out of it like you did. Then you'd know how I feel about this." He said it in such a serious fashion, with his arms crossed over his chest that John and Paul started cracking up again.

"You're our best friend too, Georgie," said Paul. "Okay?"

"Yeah," replied John. "and Ritchie too," he waved over the smaller boy who had been standing awkwardly in the door frame. "Now, we can all be best friends, and we won't let other people into our little circle. We'll be like a… a what's it called… a clique!"

"A clique?" asked George. "Like, that nose the radio makes when you turn it on? Click?"

"No," said John superiorly. "Clique. It's spelled like…" he thought for a second before giving up. "Well, I don't really know. But it's definitely not C-L-I-C-K like the radio does."

"Hey," interjected Ritchie. "How do you spell Christmas? My teacher asked me on Friday and I didn't know so she told me to go ask someone else and learn it. Do you know?"

"C-R-I-S-M-A-S," said Paul with a wave of his hand, as if the spelling was effortless.

"No!" said John. "It definitely has a 'k' in it."

"That's not true," said George in his usual, solemn fashion with a quizzical shake of his head. "There's an 'h' after the 'c'. C-H-R-I-S-M-A-S."

"But wouldn't that be pronounced 'ch-riss-mas?" said Ritchie. There's no 'ch' sound in it."

"I think there's a 'q' somewhere…" John muttered distantly. "Q-R-I-S-S-M-I-S-S?"

"No!" said the others all together. Surprised, John shrunk back against the wall in shame.

"So no 'q'?"

"No," said Paul. "At my house, we have a garland thing that says 'Merry Christmas' that my mum puts up every year. And I'm fairly certain that it says that Christmas is spelled C-R-I-S-M-I-S."

"That's what I said at school!" said Ritchie. "But Miss Matthews says it's wrong."

"Maybe it's an 'e'," suggested John. "Like as in C-R-I-S-M-E-S?"

" I GOT IT!" shouted George, so uncharacteristically loudly that everyone jumped. It's Christmas, like Christ and then 'mas'! C-H-R-I-S-T-M-A-S!"

"No, George," said Paul dismissively.

"Yeah, I thought we agreed that there was no 'h'. It doesn't make sense." This came from John.

"Oh! You know what we haven't tried!" said Ritchie animatedly, jumping up and down in his excitement. "A 'u'!" What if it's M-U-S at the end?"

"Or is it two 's's?"

"Probably not. There can only be two of one letter in word," said John, smugly.

"What about your last name?" said Ritchie. It had three n's."

"Every rule has an exception," proclaimed John, proud of his knowledge of the English vernacular.

"Wait a second! I still think I'm right!" protested George.

"No, Georgie, it's not logical. See, if it doesn't make a 'ch' sound like chocolate or Charlie does, then it can't have an 'h' in it. That wouldn't make sense and…"

And that's how the day was spent, arguing until they forgot their troubles and quickly forgiving each other to move on to something. Elsie, Ritchie's mother, eventually settled the debate when she told them all that George was right. To his gloating and the other's chagrin, Elsie gave him an extra cookie for his knowledge, which was promptly stolen from him, but broken up evenly into fourths in the end by John (who had the steadiest hands) and shared equally amongst the boys. Eventually it got late, so late that dusk began to fall on the small house. Looking out the window in a lull of play, John noticed the lateness and his stomach turned. Frantically, he ran into the living room where Elsie was sitting and reading a very thick-looking book.

"Miss Elsie!" cried John, trying his best to get her attention. "What time is it?"

The woman, amused at John's urgency, looked over at the clock. "It's almost six-thirty, John," she said, returning to her book. "You boys have played the day away, it seems," she added, poking the little boy playfully in the stomach.

While John would usually laugh and play along with her, it was much too dire circumstances for him to be playing anything. He promised to be home by six, before it started getting dark, and he knew he'd be in a world of trouble if he broke that promise. He was lucky Bobby let him out at all that day. "Sorry Miss Elsie, but I have to leave!" he began to make a run for it, but was swiftly caught from behind by Elsie. As her arms alighted on a particularly sore part of his ribs, he winced, but said nothing, biting his lip instead. Lately, he had become very good at hiding pain.

"What's the hurry, John?" she said, with a kindly twinkle in her eye. She was like George's mother in that respect.

"N-nothing," stammered John. "I promised to be home early, and I'll be in a lot of trouble if I don't get to be home really very soon!" Elsie simply looked at him and nodded her assent, a confused and troubled expression playing on her face.

_Great!_ Thought John as he dashed recklessly down the street, ignoring the honks of horns as he crossed the street without looking both ways and simply running. As late as he was, getting hit by a car really wouldn't be much worse than what was waiting at home. _Now I'm late and Elsie is suspicious like Mary and maybe Bobby won't let me go out anymore and I hope mum's okay and where's Julie and am I late and maybe Bobby will be asleep from alcohol so I can just go to bed early or maybe mum left and now I'll be all alone with him and what if he kills me and my ribs hurt and I hate running and I wish I had eaten at Elsie's beside that cookie cause I'm really hungry and hopefully we have food at home but I doubt it and I hate Bobby and I wish I was with Paul and George and Ritchie cause they're my best friends and I really hope Bobby won't take away my racecar… _His mind wandered, from the most disturbing to the most mundane of thoughts. Eventually, he arrived at his doorstep. Quietly, trying to control his running-induced panting, he opened the door, wincing at the creaking sound it made. He stepped in, looking around. The room was dark and that made it hard to see, but there was still a little bit of daylight left, so he could just barely see. He adjusted his glasses on his nose and looked around. Just as he breathed a sigh of relief and closed the door behind him, however-

-A bottle smashed on the wall beside him, and shards embedded themselves in John's shoulder. He whimpered and began to pick them out, but suddenly something connected with his ribs and he was shoved into the door, so hard he heard a cracking noise. Whether it was his rib or the door he had landed against he couldn't tell, but by the sharp pain that made its presence known in his chest, he decided to go with the former.

"Bobby, please-" he started pleadingly, but he was kicked in the head and the motion jarred him deeply, knocking the words he was thinking from his mouth.

"You little shit!" he hissed. "You little, fucking, lying, piece of dog crap! You bloody freeloader!" each insult was accompanied by a kick, and John became a bit woozier by the second, even though the kicks weren't to the head. "You're nothing! You hear me? Nothing!" he lifted John up by the collars and dragged him across the floor, against the little boy's halfhearted protests to the kitchen.

John hated the kitchen. Most of what Bobby did happened in the kitchen, where he had easy access to 'tools' that John was pretty sure weren't meant for use on humans, only food. He whimpered softly, knowing that screaming would only get him into more trouble. Bobby lifted him up and sat him roughly on the countertop.

He looked into his stepson's eyes (Julia and Bobby had recently wed, despite protests from her family that were even stronger than at her first wedding). His eyes were warm, caring, and fatherly when he wasn't drunk- perhaps that was why people never suspected him of anything even though John always had a new mark on him- but John could always see a glimmer of evil in their blueness. His eyes were the same color as Ritchie's, but they were so much crueler, evil, sadistic, and hateful, especially to John and, to a much lesser extent, Julia. While Ritchie had a permanent look of sweet cluelessness, Bobby's eyes held nothing, except the hatred John was so accustomed to.

"Say it," commanded Bobby roughly, looking hardly into John's face, his hard eyes and gruff face inches away from John's.

John flinched away from the smell of alcohol on Bobby's breath. Where was his mother? There was another slap across his face, and his brain rattled. He avoided looking at Bobby.

"Say it," he commanded. "You're nothing."

_You're right, Bobby, you're nothing, _he thought cheekily, but he certainly knew better than to say it aloud. "I'm nothing," he said hollowly, looking at the floor. His chin was roughly jerked upwards, and he was forced to look in Bobby's eyes. The look he got made him want to shrivel up and die.

"Look at me when you say it," he growled. "You're nothing."

"I'm nothing," John repeated, his eyes watering. Bobby whacked him again.

"Stop crying. You're nothing."

"I'm nothing."

"Nobody loves you."

John swallowed and bit back his tears. "Nobody loves me."

"Louder!"

"Nobody loves me!" John practically shouted, choking a sob.

"And you might as well die. Nobody would care."

"I might as well die," whispered John, his energy gone. He winced as Bobby's nails dug into his arm.

"And?" hissed Bobby, his mouth next to the boy's ear.

"Nobody would care."

"Why would nobody care?" Sadism was practically dripping from Bobby's wretched mouth.

"Because everyone hates me," whispered John. The worst part for him was that he came up with this slight against him himself, and even more horrible was that it was true. It was absolutely true.

"Good." Bobby grinned, his stained, chipped teeth breaking into a evil smile.

And, as he was thrown to the floor, as china plates were tossed at him and hot spoons pressed to his skin, John let the tears he had been holding back for almost two years finally spill over, no longer caring what atrocities it brought upon him. After all, if nobody cared for him, what reason did he have to care for himself?


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N Here's chapter 7 for you guys... updated version! I'm currently editing all my chapters... sorry I'm not doing it in order... As always, reviews are very much encouraged! Hope someone likes it!**

**-Claire**

September 21, 1948

John awoke groggily in the cupboard under the sink, curled up only semi-comfortably in one of his mother's spring coats, a soft blue thing that he regularly borrowed as bedding. He had been kicked out last night, which wasn't unusual, so like he normally did he snuck back in through a window (after the first few times he had been forced to sleep in bushes outdoors, he had wizened up and loosened a latch on a little used window), took the closest soft thing, and hid in the cupboard so Bobby wouldn't find him. Generally, by mid-afternoon the man would be drunk enough not to notice or care that John had returned, but in the mornings he was more alert and sure to throw a fit if he saw John disobeying his orders by being inside.

After he crawled out of the closet, stiffly and carefully, he simply sat on the kitchen floor and whimpered softly, for it was really all he had the energy for. Pretty much every part of his body hurt terribly. It was a different kind of pain from when the initial thing happened. When Bobby would first hit, or burn, or cut John, there was a sharp sting, like hornets, under his skin, but the morning after was always worse in his opinion, when everything hurt, ached like being slowly burned alive by the flames of Hades, all the time and flared when he moved. Of course, he knew that it would get better as the days wore on- he was a little boy, naturally resilient, and he healed quickly- but for now, it was all he could do not to sob aloud.

He tried to stand, but his left leg gave out almost immediately. Wincing and with a slight yelp as he hit the unswept floor unexpectedly, he stood up again, more gently this time, and limped over to the freezer-fridge combo that sat tucked away in the corner of the kitchen, slightly off kilter and dented from one too many drunken rampages courtesy of Bobby.

John opened the freezer and retrieved a heaping handful of ice, shoving it all down his shirt and pants, sighing as the cubes began to work their magic. Sure, it was frozenly, numbingly cold, but that was the good part of it. Even though his clothes would be completely soaked in a few minutes, it was heavenly relief for the time being.

With his mood much improved, John opened the refrigerator and looked around hopefully, disappointed but not surprised that there was nothing to eat. The only items that decorated the spare shelves were cans of beer, some liquor, a few sliced of stale and molded bread and a can of what appeared to be baking powder. Rarely did the kitchen at the household contain anything fit for consumption, as Bobby used all the money Julia made on alcohol and the wretched cigarettes that he pressed to John's skin sometimes. Naturally, Bobby got food- he was, after all, the local bar's best and most treasured customer, so they gave him a lot of free meals to complement whatever alcohol he had decided to drink that day- but rarely did he think to share. Julia worked almost 14 hours a day, so she ate discarded samples of the café's dishes for her three meals and sometimes was able to sneak John something or other. The only reliable source of food for John, however, was the free lunches provided at school (a benefit for impoverished children he wouldn't have asked his mother to sign him up if he didn't desperately need the food) and whatever he could get from Elsie, Louise, or Mary when he was at their houses. Julie still breastfed from her mother, so getting her food didn't pose a problem, at least for the time being.

John sighed resignedly, shut the fridge door, and limped carefully, avoiding stepping on glass shards that still littered the tile out of the kitchen, and made his way to the bedroom all four family members (theoretically) shared and peeked in, poking his head around the doorframe.

Bobby was sprawled out contentedly on the unmade bedspread, not even having bothered to get under the covers as per usual. Julia was curled up in a ball next to the bed, sleeping lightly, her red hair spread out behind her head like a halo. She and John rarely slept with Bobby in the bed any more, and while his mother stayed diligently on the carpeted floor next to bed, John much preferred the relative safety of his cupboard under the sink. It may be claustrophobia-inducing, stuffy, dark, and tiny, but Bobby had never found him there, and John was counting on the fact that he never would. Julie slept in a laundry basket next to Julia, soundly sucking her thumb, oblivious to the world as John wished he himself could be. They had recently had to sell her bassinet, whether for rent or Bobby's favorite pastime John wasn't sure. A lot of things had been sold recently, and John's few possessions weren't safe from it whatsoever. Most of his toys, which were his only real possessions, had recently been sold to the local pawn shop, a small establishment on the street that John's bus passed when he was going to school. Cruelly, he could always see the toys sitting neglected in the window whenever he passed.

Softly, he closed the door, satisfied that nothing terrible had happened. He went to the washing basin for new clothes and, much to his surprise and delight, found a clean shirt and pair of pants in the basket next to it that he gratefully put on, reveling in the comfort that clean clothes, as opposed to the singed, bloodied, torn and damp ones from last night brought him.

With his clothes on, he pulls the mirror out from behind the basin and looks at himself hard.

His hair was matted and at all different lengths. His bangs were uneven from his long-time neglect for getting it cut, and hung in front of his eyes shaggily. He roughly brushed the strands from his face, only to have them fall back in front of his face, obscuring his vision somewhat. The rest was overlong, nearly touching his collar- all the teachers called him a little hoodlum for it- and some strands were shorter than others, either from being singed, pulled, or simply sheared off. It was much less blond than before and much more red like his mother's, darkened much like his mood, and matted. He hadn't brushed it since yesterday, and blood had pressed it to his neck. Even through his clothes, he could see how thin he was. Although taller, he was even skinner than George, which was saying a lot. His face wasn't too much of a mess, save for a bruised eye and a cut on his cheek. Bobby may be terrible, but he was also extremely clever- he knew if he hit John's face too much people would begin to notice. For this reason, he always forced John to dress in heavy clothes, no matter what the weather. His exposed arms looked like a battlefield, scarred and bruised as they were. Bobby was absolutely right. He was ugly, stupid. That's why he was punished. That's why. Nobody loved him, nobody gave a damn what happened to him. A fact that couldn't be exemplified better than in the grim, unsmiling, depressed face that looked back at him hollowly from the confines of the mirror.

Suddenly, an ear-piercing scream tore through John's consciousness like a dagger through cotton, ripping him from his self-loathing thoughts and back into the real world. He jumped instinctively and subsequently froze in pure terror. For a short second, it seemed as if the scream hadn't been real, just the crazy thread weaved by a mind that's gone mad, or about to. Then, there was a second, seemingly muffled this time by an unknown force and accompanied by loud banging sounds that quickly invalidated that particular theory. The tortured wailings of a baby, Julie, accompanied soon after, like a twisted orchestra.

John hurried as quickly as possible, which alas wasn't very quickly at all, to the bedroom where the noise seemed to be coming from and yet again peeked around the frame of the entrance. Inside the room on top of the bed he could see his mother struggling fruitlessly, with Bobby's rough hand covering her mouth, muffling her protests. He was straddling her, and she was trying her best to thrash herself from his oppressive grip. He let his hand off her for a second and she started pleading almost immediately.

"No! Please, Bobby! Not this time, please not today, I'll do it tonight, I can't… Bobby it hurts! Don't hurt me!" she was stopped by the sounds of a wailing baby, which had quickly intensified. "Oh, Julie-" she tried to get up to tend to her daughter, but she was pushed back down almost immediately.

"You want her?" snarled Bobby condescendingly, standing up and stalking over to the wailing child in the laundry basket. Thankfully, he didn't notice John as he went. "Well, guess what? I'm your fucking husband, Julia, and this damn baby isn't going to get in my way!" he lifted the one-year old from her position, by the collar as he's done to John so many times, and shook her violently. Julia wailed at seeing her daughter in this situation, and she got up and snatched her away from Bobby and quickly put her in the closet, shutting the door tightly to get the child away from the man, the monster in front of her. Bobby's nostrils flared in rage, but he did nothing to stop or reverse her actions.

John's mind was drifting throughout the episode. He was completely and totally lost in thought, and before he knew it, some of his too-long hair was in Bobby's filthy fist and he was being dragged into the room, right into the thick of things.

"Johnny…" Julia whispered worriedly, tears pooling in her beautiful, pale green eyes- eyes like frightened disks of hard candy, wide and shaking ever so slightly. John hated seeing her in such a state- it was so different from how she normally was, happy, cheerful, witty, outgoing and fun loving. Julia appeared to think about going to her son, but she stayed sentry at the closet door, protectively shielding her other, more fragile child. She looked intently at her son, her face seemingly draining of both color and expression.

"Get over here, you bitch!" hissed Bobby, pulling tighter on John's hair. He whined at the sharp needle-sensation, but was silenced by a kick to the back of the knees that sent him to the floor in a heap. He was quickly jerked upright, by his hair once more, and he regarded the wall in front of him, trying to block out the events taking place. Sometimes, if he was lucky, he could tune himself out of whatever was happening. It was rare, however, that he could, and it seemed that his brain wouldn't comply today. A right shame, too, as Bobby appeared to be in even more foul a mood than usual.

Julia took a deep, shaky breath and calmly walked over to her son. She stood in front of him, only about a foot away, and gave Bobby a look of such pure malice that John was surprised that the man didn't spontaneously burst into flames from the sheer potency of Julia's anger. Suddenly, with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, it occurred to him that he had just woken up. Bobby couldn't possibly have had any more drinks this morning, meaning he was completely sober, and even probably capacitated by a hangover. And if he was doing this un-intoxicated, that was really the thing to worry about- that his violence was no longer a bi-product of drunkenness but an action he chose to follow through with even when his mind was unhindered.

"Hit him," commanded Bobby, his voice cold as ice. Julia looked at him in silent horror, disbelievingly. "Do it!" he insisted maliciously, letting go of John, who immediately fell to the floor, and grabbing a long wooden rod from beside him. "Or I'll kill the other one."

His threat was genuine. Both John and Julia could tell that he would kill Julie if he didn't get what he wanted. Closing her eyes, Julia slapped John softly. The force was barely enough to shake the skin of his cheek, and certainly not enough to even sting. However, it wasn't enough for Bobby.

"Harder!" he hissed. Julia hit John again, this time harder, and John's face stung and his head whipped around. He turned back around and looked at her, a strange expression on his face. It was one of hurt, confusion, and betrayal, mixed in with fear and sprinkled in anger. More tears fell from Julia's eyes and down her cheeks. Even though John had no way to tell, the look he had on his face was enough to rip her from the inside out, and even though she wanted to stop more than anything, Bobby kept threatening her, egging her on. Julia kept hitting, kicking, and slapping her son against her will, tears bitterly streaming down her face all the while.

Then, seemingly from nowhere, Bobby procured a heated iron, which he handed to Julia with a frenzied, sadistic glint in his eyes, the kind that would get you sent to a mental hospital and never let out. John squeezed his eyes shut tightly as he could and prepared for the all-too-familiar melting sensation that he knew followed whenever the iron was taken out.

He heard the unmistakable hiss of heated iron on flesh, and he felt…

Nothing.

There was a deep, throaty yell of pain.

John cracked his eyes open hesitantly, to see his mother viciously pressing the hot metal against Bobby's shoulder. She pressed and pressed until she was thrown backward violently. She crashed into the bedside table with a loud crack, and one of the legs of the table snapped, sending the entire thing to the floor on top her. The scattered bottles on the table crashed down onto the floor and shattered, broken glass exploding onto the floor into a million little green slivers. Almost immediately, as if she had suddenly acquired superpowers, she got up and dashed across the room to John, forgetting Julie for the time being. She grabbed her son's hand and was almost out the door with him when the iron hit her in the shoulder, having just come from the angry hand of Bobby. She stumbled under the impact, but didn't fall, and together mother and son booked it out of the room together, their feet pattering frantically on the floor, mother dragging son, son looking fearfully behind, the horrible adrenaline of the moment coursing through their veins and making their hearts beat faster and faster, like they were about to reach some sort of climax.

Bobby was right behind them, livid, eyes ablaze with anger. The fabric of his shirt was blackened on his left shoulder, but he didn't even seem to acknowledge the injury, his mind more focused on the revenge he seemed bent on getting. All the time, profanities came spewing forth from his beer-scented mouth, and he threw anything he could at Julia and John. Even though vases hit him, shards embedded themselves in his back, John didn't care. He was terrified, running blindly and completely terrified. Bobby was madder than he's ever seen him before, and imaginative thoughts of terrible things coursed through his young mind.

Julia hadn't planned her escape route well. Instead of making it to the door, she mistakenly turned the wrong way in the hall and found herself with John trapped in a corner of the kitchen, no escape in sight. Not knowing what else to do, she hugged John protectively and whispered words of comfort in his ear, but Bobby's enraged shouts drowned it all out.

He was in front of them now. The sparely furnished room, broken cupboards hanging from their hinges, looked like a prison to John, an execution room even, and Bobby before him, with a baseball bat in one hand and a china plate in the other looked like a monster- the kind borne of twisted nightmares turned to reality. The stubble on his beard looked deadly, the look in his eyes like it would melt solid iron. Not for the first time, John feared for his life, but this time it was different.

"No, Bobby! Please, it was an accident!" Julia cried out, pushing John behind her as she tried desperately to reason with Bobby.

"YOU CROSSED THE LINE, YOU DUMB FUCKING BITCH! GIVE ME THE BOY, JULIA, I'LL KILL HIM, I SWEAR I WILL!" he was roaring now, like a lion, and he reached behind Julia and grabbed John's arm so hard that pins and needles went into his fingers. He whimpered in pain, and the baseball bat smashed onto his shoulder hard and he fell to the floor. He could feel himself being lifted once again, but suddenly, Bobby fell away from him. Julia had tackled him football style, and the two adults were hitting and kicking for dear life, for revenge on both their parts. It was hard to believe, John thought drily, that they were married.

"GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME, YOU FUCKER! GET AWAY FROM ME AND MY CHILDREN, AND NEVER COME BACK!" Julia screamed as she smashed a small fist into Bobby's frame. John gleefully cheered for his mother, glad that she was finally standing up for herself, for him and Julie. But then his face fell and his blood ran cold. A swatch of metal glinted in the light of the early morning from Bobby's right fist.

It was a knife.

Bobby plunged the sharp metal into Julia up to the handle, sinking it in just above her pelvis, and she howled and let go, freeing Bobby to raise the knife again. And just then, at least for John, time seemed to stop entirely.

In addition to the knife, a long and vile instrument intended for kitchen use that used quite often, Bobby owned a gun. He had never shot it at anything to John's knowledge, but he certainly owned it, and it was certainly loaded. Bobby would threaten John with it at sporadically when he got especially drunk and violent, and John knew exactly where it was- in the cupboard nearest to him. Without a thought in his head except to save his and his mother's life, John threw open the doors and grabbed it. Beside him, Bobby's knife sunk yet again into Julia's abdomen, her screams of pain becoming fainter as Bobby drained her of her vitality.

The instrument felt cold in his hands, foreign and evil, like a living creature with fangs that could very well bite him. Although never before in his life had he used a gun, he had seen Bobby so close to shooting something- usually him- that his fingers instinctively knew what to do as he hastily aimed the instrument.

As Bobby began to embed his knife a third time into Julia, John shut his eyes and pulled the trigger.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N Here's another chapter for you all! I know the suspense must be killing you :) Midterms end Wednesday, so I can get to writing more frequently after that. Oh, and I changed the summary, but I still think the title's pretty crappy... any suggestions from my avid readers? Thanks in advance :)**

**-Claire**

September 21, 1948

The shot rang in John's ears, and he fell back onto the floor with recoil.

He lay there for less than a minute, waiting for his head to stop spinning until he slowly, cautiously got up and timidly surveyed the scene in front of him. He noticed the shotgun was still beside him and he kicked it away, disgustedly. In front of him, Julia was on the floor, sprawled out, her chest heaving with labored breaths. Bobby was on top of her, slumped over on the floor. He was completely still.

John crawled over to them, slowly, the only sound in the house being the muffled cries of Julie, who was still in the closet of Julia and Bobby's room around the corner. John gazed intently at his mother. Her nightgown was stained with blood, and her face was pale, as the blood drained out of it. She coughed, and blood showed itself in her mouth, staining her teeth like a scene from a B-rated horror film. Trying desperately not to throw up, John looked over at Bobby.

From the neck down, he was fine, unscathed except for the burn Julia had made on his shoulder with the iron. But, on the side of his head, right where his temple should be, there was a black, bloody hole. Bobby was still, frighteningly so. His eyes were open, but they saw nothing of what was in front of them.

Bile crept up John's throat and he tore his gaze away from Bobby, shaking his head to try to scare away the image of Bobby's corpse that seemed to be imprinted on his mind. He looked back at Julia, whose eyes were slowly closing.

"Mum!" John shouted. Julia's eyes groggily re-opened. "You have to stay awake, alright? Please?"

Julia didn't respond, she simply looked at him, horrified, and frightened. Was she frightened of him, John wondered? He wanted to ask her, but instead he ran over to the front door and opened it wide, and not even bothering to close it ran next door to Mr. and Mrs. Kipling's house.

He didn't particularly like them- under normal circumstances, he found the pair and their wretchedly perfect children too conventional and boring to make an attempt at politeness with- but now, he only hoped that they were home and had enough heart to help him as he banged his fist on the door, not wasting time with the bell. After four knocks, Mrs. Kipling opened the door and looked at John like a deer in headlights.

The sight before her- a bruised, blood-soaked seven year old boy, shoeless and shaking, shocked Mrs. Kipling and she yelped slightly. But before she could even begin to question her neighbor, John opened his mouth, and spoke, much louder than she felt necessary. "My mummy is going to die! Help me! Call someone! Help! Please, please, please! Help me! I need someone!"

John didn't even wait for a response, he simply grabbed her hand and dragged her over to his house, through the front door, and into the kitchen, where he pointed, crying, towards the scene. Mrs. Kipling's eyes opened wide like saucers of milk with brown irises floating in the center, and her impeccably made-up face broke into a scream of horror. She ran over to the kitchen phone- John wondered then why he hadn't thought of that before he bothered the poor woman- and sent John harshly outside.

And there John sat, on the front steps, and later, as the emergency people came and made him move, next to them. He let himself cry unashamedly, not moving, just letting tears fall down his cheeks like a pair of tiny twin rivers. There he sat as a pair of men with a stretcher brought out his mother, oxygen mask pressed to her face, and set her in an ambulance with flashing lights. He sat there as the neighbors began to gather, pointing and muttering, no doubt about him- but not a single one came to console him as he let himself cry.

_Nobody cares about you. You're worthless, _hissed a voice in John's head, a voice he knew he's never hear again in real life but would haunt his dreams, creep into his consciousness, for many years to come. And he was right.

Two more men came with another stretcher, one with a body bag on top of it, and John knew who it contained. Yet another held Julie, who, sobbing inconsolably, clutched his neck as he carried her to another ambulance.

A pair of arms wrapped themselves around them, and instinctively John lashed out, flailing his arms and trying to get whoever was on him off. He shut his eyes and hit blindly, few of his attacks landing, sobs chocking themselves from his mouth. The September air dried them on his cheeks, and he eventually gave up and collapsed in the foreign arms, his  
energy spent, and cried.

"John," said a soft, familiar voice. "John, sugar, it's me." He looked up slowly, and a ruddy-cheeked face looked back, dark hair hidden in a nurse's cap, eyes dark hazel and full of quiet, calm concern. Mary McCartney.

"Is my mum okay?" he asked quietly, letting Mary carry him to another ambulance.

Mary's heart broke at the question, innocent but still horrifyingly knowing. "I don't know, John," she whispered back, her nurse's knack for comfort pervading the anger she felt at Bobby. "We can see when we get to the hospital, okay? And then you and your mum can tell me what happened."

"She's going to die, isn't she?" asked John, tears starting afresh. "She's going to die, and I'll be all alone again." Mary gingerly lay him down in the ambulance and sat in a seat next to him as paramedics came in and checked John over. He made feeble, halfhearted attempts to send them off, but stopped with a sad, pleading look from Mary.

"I don't know," she sighed. "I don't know."

The ride to the hospital was quiet, except for the occasional request for varying medical supplies from the paramedics. Mary sat quietly next to John the whole time, occasionally helping the paramedics but for the most part just holding John's hand, which he was grateful for, even though he was much too proud to voice his opinions. He was asked no questions, a fact that he also very much appreciated as he generally wasn't in the mood for talking. It took all his concentration not to burst into tears again. He hated crying. It never made things better, but sometimes he simply couldn't help it. The only result it ever brought him was either pity, which he loathed, or more pain, which he also was none too fond of. He decided, then and there, to make a conscious effort not to cry ever again.

Eventually the ambulance arrived at the hospital and he was carried inside, strapped to a stretcher, and transported to a small room. Never before had John been to a hospital, and despite his worries he found himself fascinated by its hugeness. The ceiling was low, but it seemed to stretch on forever in all directions, and all the walls were a white color, that seemed to have used to be pristine and crisp but had been faded to a grayish-cream shade by the years, or perhaps by misery. There were so many hallways, John had no idea how the orderlies even knew where to go, but they quickly deposited him in a small room and left him there, alone.

Immediately, he began to panic. He had lost track of Mary somewhere in between the ambulance and the front corridor of the hospital, and he had lost sight of his mother at around the same time. She had been carted in with people all around her, yelling about blood and surgery, and wheeled into a room so quickly that John hadn't the time to notice which door she's been brought to. He was about to try to undo his straps when the door burst open and a kindly-looking older man came in.

"Hello, John," he said, gently undoing the straps that confined John to the gurney. The boy tried to get up, but the doctor quickly pushed him back down again, as gingerly as possible. "Not yet, John," he commented, smiling.

The doctor, who introduced himself as Dr. Sumner but said John could call him Adam, was a shorter man, probably five feet eight, and had half-moon glasses, graying hair, and a slightly lined face that crinkled when he smiled. He was wearing a long white coat, and had an instrument around his neck that John didn't recognize.

"What's the thing on your neck?" asked John.

Adam smiled, and put the ends of it in his ears. "It's called a stethoscope," he replied, picking up the third end of it. "See, I just put these in my ears, put this on your chest-" he reached up John's shirt and put the cool metal on his ribs. "And then I can hear your heartbeat." He quietly stood for a while, looking thoughtful, and moved the end of the stethoscope around a bit before he returned the instrument to around his neck.

"That's cool," said John. "Can I try it?"

Adam laughed lightly. 'Maybe later. Can you tell me if this hurts?" he pressed a hand to John's ribs, and was met with a wince and a nod. "I can tell," he added, quietly, smiling again, but this time the smile wasn't as happy as it was rueful. He continued this for a while, before covering John's numerous cuts with bandages, wrapping gauze about his head, and putting tape on his ribs. He put a large brace-like thing on John's knee, the one that had given out that morning. He put some sort of cream on the burns and put white coverings on those too. He put him in an x-ray machine and showed John the pictures, and even let him keep some. Finally, he gave him a pill that made all the pain go away and turned the world fuzzy and muted, even though John's glasses had been delivered to him earlier. He left, and then a nurse and a couple orderlies put him in a wheelchair that was much too big and moved him to a room that already had two other small boys in it. He put him in the bed to the left corner, put a needle into his arm and attached it to a bag of fluid, and left the boy alone with nothing but his thoughts and the few black-and white x-ray copies that he sat at the foot of his bed.

It must have been over an hour since John had come, and there was still no news of his mother, a fact which simultaneously worried and annoyed John. He also had no idea where his sister was, or Mary, or if anybody was going to come and visit him. The room was bleak and boring, and he had half a mind to get up and find his mother himself but he hadn't the energy required to even sit up, much less go on an expedition.

He slept, he woke. He was given no food, but strangely enough he didn't want any. The pill wore off, but a nurse came in and gave him another and the soft, comforting underwater feel it brought returned. There were no windows or clocks in the room, no indication of time, and although he really wanted to know the time nobody came in that he felt comfortable with asking. His eyes began to burn suddenly, but he was adamant about not giving into the temptation to cry, and remained stoically dry-eyed.

After what seemed like a very long time, Mary came in, flanked by a pair of police officers, one of whom was tall, mustached and carried a clipboard and the other of which was short, wide, and had dark hair. The officers both pulled up wooden chairs to one side of John's bed and Mary stood on his other side, with one hand soothingly rubbing his closest shoulder.

"John," said Mary. "These men are going to ask you some questions, okay? And you have to answer as truthfully as possible." John nodded and looked at the policemen.

"Are you John Winston Lennon?" asked one with a clipboard, whose nametag read Merrin.

It was a stupid question in John's opinion, but he said "Yes" anyway, his voice coming out small.

"Are your parents Julia Stanley and Alfred Lennon?" this one's nametag introduced him as Gardner.

John nodded again.

"Now, tell me as clearly as you can what happened yesterday and this morning."

Momentarily, John thought about it before sighing and averting his eyes from the prying eyes of the men in front of him, instead preferring to absentmindedly play with the front of his covers with a bruised hand. "Well," he began, quietly. "I went to my friend Ritchie's house yesterday with my other friends Paul and George. Bobby had said I could go if I was home before it was dark, but I forgot and it got dark. I left really quickly and I ran home and when I got there, I opened the door really slowly-"

"What time would you say this was?" asked Merrin.

"I dunno," said John, continuing to finger the linen. "Maybe six."

"Where does your friend live?"

"On Admiral Grove, in Dingle."

"And you ran home from there by yourself?"

John nodded again. "When I got home, I opened the door really slowly because I thought Bobby would be asleep, but he wasn't. He threw a bottle at me, and it got stuck in my shoulder. He started calling me names, and he dragged me into the kitchen, and made me say I was stupid, and I was worthless, and nobody loves me. He hit me, and he kicked me, and he poured water on me, and he heated up spoons and put them on me." John wiped away a stray tear, choking back his urge to sob in recollection. "And he did a bunch of other stuff too, like with knives and belts. He made me drink Windex. Then he passed out, so I went to bed."

"And when was this?"

"Ten. He fell asleep in the living room, so I took my mum's coat and slept in the cupboard."

"Why didn't you use your own bed?" asked the man called Gardner, leaning closer to John. The little boy shied away from the intruding policeman, even though he knew the aversion was irrational. Mary squeezed his shoulder tighter and he grabbed her hand, eager for the human contact.

"I don't have one," he said. "We don't have a lot of money, so I'm supposed to sleep next to them in the bed. Bobby's really scary though and it's a small bed, so I usually hide in the cupboard under the kitchen sink. Otherwise I get hit or cut or burnt or something."

The officers nodded, although John suspected their looks of sympathy weren't genuine. Their eyes still retained the calculating look they had when they came in, and it made John a little angry. He hated lies, and faking your emotions was to him the greatest lie of all.

"When I woke up I got changed and stuff, I heard my mum screaming. I went over to their room and Bobby was on top of mum, and I don't know what he was doing, but she didn't want him to. My sister Julie started crying so my mum tried to get to her, but Bobby got mad and said he'd kill my sister. He put her in the closet, and then he saw me so he grabbed me and brought me inside. He pulled my hair some and kicked me, and then he told my mum to come over. He made her hit me, and kick me, and then he heated up an iron. He told her to burn me with it, but she burnt him instead. Bobby got really furious at mum, so she grabbed me and we ran into the kitchen. He started chasing us and throwing stuff and-" John's pace sped up, the terrible adrenaline rush of the moment returning to him, and his voice hitched slightly before continuing. Merrin's note-taking on his clipboard was even faster now, and his pen scribbled furiously. "Eventually, he caught us and mum attacked him. They started fighting, and hitting each other, and screaming, but Bobby was stronger than she was and he pulled out a knife and started stabbing her with it."

"Is this when your mother shot Mr. Dykins?" asked the one called Gardner, prying insensitively. Tears pooled in John's eyes again, and he did nothing to push them back, simply letting them saturate the covers.

"She didn't shoot him," said John monotonously.

"Did he commit suicide?" asked Merrin, jotting another note on his clipboard.

"No," sobbed John, closing his eyes and squeezing Mary's hand.

"Then who shot Mr. Dykins?" John didn't even notice who asked the question this time.

"I did!" he shouted, before collapsing into sobs. There were soft, muted gasps from the assembled adults, and John pulled Mary closer and cried into her shoulder, letting the rough, shapeless fabric of her nurse's uniform hide him from the world. If it were up to him, he would stay there forever, in a world of cotton and polyester, where there were no tears or worries or pain or sadness. Just simplicity and contentedness, calmness, where nobody died and nobody felt the incomparable guilt that came with knowing you were the one that caused death. The guilt that came with being a murderer. For, as John realized with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, that's what he was. He had killed Bobby. He was a murderer.

Mary let him cry for what seemed to John like a long time, but was probably in reality only a couple of minutes, before she gently pried him away from her tearstained shoulder and whispered words of comfort to him. He roughly wiped away the remaining moisture from his face.

"Bobby had a gun in the cupboard next to the fridge," he said, quietly, hollowly. "He'd used it a few times to threaten me, but he hasn't shot it before. He was going to kill my mummy, he was going to kill me too and I- I just took it out and I pointed it and I pulled the trigger."

"And you contacted your neighbor, Mrs. Kipling immediately after this?" John nodded. It seemed that the policemen were pushing past the tension the confession had created, something the little boy was immeasurably grateful for. At least they weren't looking at him like the murderer he was.

"Mrs. McCartney," said Merrin, putting down his clipboard. "What's your relation to John?"

"My son, Paul is one of John's friends. He comes over to my house on a regular basis."

"And John," said Gardner, slowly as if John was mentally challenged. "Is this the first time that Bobby has become violent towards you or your mother, and has he ever abused your sister?"

John looked at the man incredulously. Hadn't he already answered that question? Nevertheless, he sighed and replied, in a world-weary fashion way beyond his years, "No. He drinks pretty much every day if he can, and then he gets mean. He usually hits me, but sometimes my mother too. Not as often. I told him when my sister was born he could hit me twice as much if he left her alone, so he did." John even surprised himself with revealing this. The deal, he knew was only temporary, but Julie looked so fragile, especially when she was born and even now when she was older, that John felt some sort of brotherly instinct to protect her from whatever dangers the world held, and he felt he should start at home. Even if it meant twice as much pain for him, as long as perfect and untainted Julie was okay he would take it. He regretted revealing the information, however, as it brought on another round of those stupid sympathetic looks that he had been having way too many of that day.

"Does your mother have a job?" asked Merrin, pushing past the slightly awkward moment.

"Yes. She's a waitress in a café near school. I don't know what it's called though."

"Was Bobby employed?"

"No. Well, he used to be a bartender, but they sacked him because he drank. Mum makes the money."

"When was your sister born?"

"March fifth, not this year but the last one. Can you leave now? I'm sleepy." John was growing tiresome of all the tedious questioning, and he hadn't slept well the night before at all and the stresses of the day were beginning to wear on him. The policemen nodded in understanding and sympathy- something they seemed to so a lot- and left the room. Glad they were gone, John pulled the covers over his shoulders and snuggled into as tight a ball as he could without hurting himself, which granted was not a very tight ball. He was about to drift off when Mary spoke, softly, like she was talking to a particularly frightened sparrow that would fly off if the noises it heard were too loud.

"John?" she asked. "I have to go back to work, but my shift ends at five and I can tell you how your mother is, alright?" Mary, however, got no response except for the slow, even breaths of a sleeping child. She smiled, and pushed his reddish hair from his face before leaving, making a note to have an orderly wash the blood out of it as soon as the young boy was ready for it. She opened the door and began to take her leave, but before doing so she looked back in and blew a kiss. "Sweet dreams," she whispered, before closing the door to go about her day.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N Ahh, yes. Two updates in twelve hours, how magical am I? This one's a little short, but it was the best stopping point I could find. Chapter ten should be up tomorrow, or maybe even tonight (double digits, woot woot!)**

**-Claire**

September 23, 1948

It had been two nights and almost three days, but they still wouldn't let John leave the hospital. There was nothing he longed for more than a sense of normalcy to combat the last several years of his life- maybe finally, now that Bobby was gone, him, his mother and baby Julie could all go home and start afresh, open a new page in the metaphorical book of their lives. Of course, all this rode on whether or not they would just let him out of the damn hospital already.

Ritchie and George had come to visit the day before, after school ended. They caught him up on all the stuff they had talked about in class, which was a lot of information. After all, year two of grammar school was the hardest, or at least it had been harder than year one and infinitely more challenging than kindergarten had been. However, they also said that all the teachers weren't going to make John do all the assignments he was missing, which was good because even though John liked the blissful escape school brought him he detested the homework that came with it. What they didn't talk about, however, was what had transpired to land John in the situation in the first place. Whether it was from their intuition or their mothers' instructions, they carefully and expertly avoided the subject, which simultaneously pleased and annoyed John, if it was even possible.

He had been having nightmares recently, which wasn't new for him but they had intensified, and became even more realistic. It wasn't a normal seven-year-old's nighttime terrors of monsters and snakes, but rather faceless guilt, anxiety, pain, all of it unrelenting, like the world weighing on his shoulders. It was for this reason John had grown to dislike sleeping, but everybody had to rest, and even though he tried his best to stay awake, he would eventually nod off and exit the material world and into one that his twisted mind had made up to sadistically torture him, or at least that's how it seemed.

He had finally gotten wind of news on his mother that put him in a considerably better mood than he would've been in otherwise. Apparently, Julia was out of the woods for now. Her surgery had been successful, and they had closed up all the holes where the knife had gone into her, much like they said John would have scars for the remainder of his life. Perhaps they'd match.

The hospital had also told him Julie, his sister, was fine, which hadn't surprised him. She had just been malnourished (like John himself) and they were going to fix that very quickly. They still, however, wouldn't say her location, no matter how much John requested it.

Hospital food, he had been quick to learn, was disgusting. The orderlies that brought it in didn't even tell him what it was called; only that it was breakfast, or lunch, or supper, and to eat it up before it cools. John found these instructions wholly ridiculous- as whatever it was already was cold by the time it arrived. However, no matter how much the food made him want to throw up, he choked it down without complaint. It was much better than he got at home anyways, although nowhere near as good as Elsie's cookies or Louise's spaghetti.

It was around six-thirty that day, a Friday, when John's door opened, and instead of the visitor going to one of his other roommates as per usual (the other boys' parents visited them often, much to John's jealousy. He didn't particularly like either one- Gabriel and Frederick were their names- as he found them to be whiny and annoying.) It was Paul, his light hair still the inexplicable combination of bouncy and neat that John remembered, grinning and holding a small cardboard box. He practically ran over to John and sat down so hard John was surprised the chair didn't fold under the sudden pressure. It wasn't like Paul to be so recklessly animated- that was Ritchie's job- and although he was completely out of character John was happy to see his friend.

"Hi, Paulie!" he said, sitting up from his position, only to fall back down again in a sudden wave of dizziness. It happened quite often, whenever he tried to do things too fast. He waited for the black spots to clear from his vision before sitting up again, more slowly this time, and was greeted by the worried face of Paul.

"Are you alright?" he asked. For a seven year old, Paul was of an impeccably perceptive sort.

"Yes," John said flippantly, before pulling a funny face, with his tongue sticking out and his eyes crossed. It had the desired effect, and Paul's serious expression was replaced by one of mirth.

"You look okay," said Paul. Unlike the others, Paul was the most likely to mince his words, and say things that were untrue to spare others' feelings. While even George had been quick to point out in his typically morose fashion the state of John's appearance (You look like a flying lorry took its grill to your head, John), Paul was nice to the point of being irking. "I brought you a present," he added, putting the box on John's lap.

He stared at the cardboard cube in wonderment. Never did he receive spontaneous gifts. He only got presents on Christmas and his birthday, and even then only from his few friends. Perhaps people got presents when they went to the hospital- John was unaware of the social conventions surrounding hospital stays, so he wouldn't know. Regardless, he smiled, his first real one in days, and opened the top flap of the box.

Inside were several pieces of candy.

Candy, in post-war Liverpool, was a rarity, rationed out in small doses and even then to the lucky kids. He knew Paul got candy rations, even though the boy never shared with anybody. He didn't know if Ritchie and George did, although he did certainly know the last time he had tasted anything sweet or saccharine had been, well, never. Perhaps he did get candy rations and Bobby had traded them for alcohol ones. Most of the stuff Bobby had gotten was illegal imports, and much more taxing on the wallet than home-grown beers and scotches were, so he wouldn't be the least bit surprised if his candy had been sold. After all, his toys and a lot of the food had been too.

"Wow, Paulie!" he said, looking at his friend, who was grinning ear to ear. "How'd you get so much?"

"I save it sometimes," said Paul proudly. "Plus, I didn't use any of mine since mum said you were in a hospital. There's a whole ten of them in there, and they're really good ones too. Chocolate and such. Plus there are a couple of cinnamon snappers, which I don't really like but you might."

John simply nodded eagerly, ignoring the spinning sensation the sudden movement brought, and picked up a piece.

"That's caramel," said Paul, but John paid no attention. He unwrapped the small square and put it in his mouth, his senses suddenly overwhelmed at the sudden sweetness. Caramel, he decided, had to be the best invention ever. He could taste the sugar, and he sucked on the morsel for as long as he could, savoring wonderful taste. Suddenly, John realized that Paul was simply sitting next to him as he ate all the candy, so he picked up the next piece and handed it to Paul, who grinned and bit into it before smiling at his friend with chocolate-stained teeth.

They spent several minutes that way, simply eating candies. There were only ten of them, and each boy only got five, but John loved every molecule of sweetness that graced his tongue. Caramel, chocolate, peppermint, cinnamon… Paul may wrinkle his nose at the spiciness, but John loved that one most of all. Much to John's dismay, after he swallowed the last bit of peppermint snap he began to feel tired. He had wanted to stay up and talk with Paul, but it seemed his body had other plans, and he closed his eyes.

"Are you sleepy?" asked Paul. John nodded groggily in response. "Me too," he said. "Let's take a nap." Suddenly, John felt the little boy's light pressure as he hopped next to John on the bedspread. He was taken aback, but he scooted over to accommodate Paul, who dove under the covers and leaned his head on John's shoulder. John winced, as the weight of Paul's head felt anything but good against him, but he shifted and he felt much better. Although normally he would shove off any contact, being with Paul felt safe, like the small boy could be trusted. And trust him John did, as the two friends quietly fell asleep, and John welcomed his fist night in a long while that wasn't filled with nightmares.

By the time John woke up again, Paul wasn't there anymore, and after panicking a moment, John realized it was probably very late, and Paul had gone home to sleep. Still, it didn't help the sudden oppressive weight of aloneness on top of him. With the possible exception of George, none of the small quartet were capable of being alone without being lonely.

He wasn't without company for long, however, as the door slowly creaked open and in came Mary, dressed to the nines in her nurse's cap and sweeping cloak that made her look, in John's opinion, a bit like a nun. She smiled when she saw that John was awake and stood next to his bedside.

"I'm glad to see you're awake," she greeted quietly.

"Why are you whispering?" asked John.

A small smile played across Mary's face, one of amusement like the answer to John's question was obvious. "So I won't wake up your roommates or their families, of course," she said, gesturing to the two boys who were also in the room. The curtains were down for once, allowing John to view the other boys in all their peacefully slumbering glory.

"Who cares?" grumbled John, crossing his arms huffily.

"John," chided Mary, still maintaining her good humor. "It's polite." John simply looked in jealously at the other boys, who had two parents each napping next to their respective sons in wooden chairs. Why did they deserve to have their families whole and loving around them and not John? It was because he was bad, wasn't it? He was bad, a monster that killed his own stepfather and almost let his mother die. He was a bad boy who had let his father go away without even wishing a merry goodbye, without even saying one final 'I love you'.

"Your mother's awake," said Mary. This caught John's attention, and he whipped his head around to face her in disbelief."

"Really?" he asked. The doctor's had told him she'd be asleep at least until Sunday.

"Yes," said Mary. "Hop in and we can go see her." She pointed to a wheelchair that had suddenly manifested itself next to John's bed, and was met with an incredulous look. John was perfectly capable of walking himself, and he had no qualms about pointing it out to her.

"That may be the case," sighed Mary, trying not to get annoyed with him. After all he'd been through he had a right to be bitter. "But we don't want any accidents to happen, now do we?" John tried to think up a response, but his wellspring of wit had run dry. Instead, he scowled and let Mary lift him into the small wheelchair and begin pushing him out the door. "Atta boy," she said.

Although it wasn't quite freedom, John was immensely glad to be out of the accursed hospital room, even if he was only going down a couple hallways and returning immediately after. Plus, he would get to see his mother, which was a bonus in and of itself. This late at night there weren't too many doctors and nurses running around, except for a few milling the hallways to check on patients. Newton Memorial wasn't the kind of place that got a whole lot of action, tucked away into the depths of Liverpool as it was. Soon, John was wheeled out from the gray, depressing hallways to an equally gray and depressing room, however one that contained a much happier sight.

"Mum!" he shouted upon seeing his mother. In his excitement, he got up from his wheelchair and began to run towards her, which proved very quickly to be a bad idea when his vision clouded and his legs gave out. He was only just saved from an untimely acquaintance with the floor by a fast thinking Mary.

"Oh, no you don't," she chided, sitting him gently back down. She then wheeled him over to his mother.

Julia Stanley-Dykins looked awful, but as long as her eyes were able to look at him it was good enough for John. Her red hair was straggling and knotted from the hospital worker's neglect to brush it. She lay prostrate on the lumpy hospital bed, seemingly lacking even the energy to lift her head. Her face was pale and there were wires and tubes everywhere.

"Hello, John," she whispered. John searched his mother's face for a smile, a grin, an indication that she was happy to see him, but found none.

"'Lo, mum," he muttered, suddenly uncomfortable. All his earlier vigor was gone, leaving behind a broken and confused boy. "I thought you were gonna die, y'know," he said, picking at a loose string on his hospital pajamas and looking at her from the corner of his eye.

"Well, I'm not," she said. "There's no need to think _I'm_ not alive, John," she said, coldly.

Ouch. The words stung John, and although he tried not to show it a look of hurt passed over him before he regained his poker face. He simply tugged harder on the loose string, so hard that it left small indents on his thumb and forefinger. "Me neither," he mumbled.

"I wasn't worried about you," said Julia, still avoiding her son's gaze.

"I think," said Mary, quietly from the other side of Julia's (private) room. Her voice surprised John, who had forgotten she was even there. "We should go now. You both need your rest. Maybe we can arrange another visit when…" nervously, she floundered to think up something to say that wouldn't upset the mother-son duo. "When you're a little more acclimated." It was an answer, but not really, and both John and Julia knew what she really meant.

Woodenly, John nodded and folded his hands back in his lap, carefully avoiding his mother's gaze. He felt the gentle pressure of Mary's hands on the handles of the chair, and the small, jerking moment of inertia as the chair started to move.

It was only when he was alone and behind closed doors did John allow himself to cry.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N SOOOOO SORRY FOR THE LONG WAIT! This chapter's pretty short, and unedited. I've been kind of busy lately, but I can promise you without a shadow of a doubt chapter 11 will be up for Monday at the latest. Again, sorry for the quality, I'll edit all the chapters in a week or two. (By the way, double digits, woot woot!)**

**By the way, BREAKING BEATLE NEWS: I was watching CNN today, and they had a little bit about prevoisly unseen Beatle photos (mostly from Help! to Magical Mystery Tour period) being discovered. They're all in color, and they're posted on the CNN website. It's amazing! Check it outttt :)**

September 26, 1948

Three more days came and went, and each one more eventful than the last. His release date was set for the twenty-eighth, and he would be staying with his Auntie Nanny, which was short for Anne, until October fifth, when his mother would be released and she could take him and Julia home.

He and his mother weren't on as uncomfortable of terms as they had been a few days previously, and although it wasn't quite as nerve-wracking to be with her she still seemed aloof in a way John couldn't quite place, like she was still mad at him but hiding it. Julia Dykins, now Stanley, was beginning the arduous process of making some final funeral arrangements for Bobby. It had been made abundantly clear to John that he certainly wouldn't be welcomed to the funeral of a man he'd killed, which he had expected anyway but the fact that he had actually killed someone seemed all the more real when his mother said it. Even though Bobby always hit, yelled and drank, John did know Julia had loved him and it made him feel extremely guilty that it was him that caused her to be so sad. All he could really hope for was for her to forgive him.

"So you can come back at school on Monday?" asked Ritchie. All four boys were in the small playroom of the hospital, which was no more than a rug-floored area with a few ratty toys around that they wouldn't touch. A little girl attached to an IV played with a doll in one corner and two other children, both of whom were bald, halfheartedly built a puzzle.

"Yes," said John, smiling. He was feeling much better now, and he was walking more normal.

"Good," said Paul. "It's been really weird at lunch, because Liam Fleischman kept sitting in your seat."

"He smells like tuna," added George. "It's really weird."

"I wanted to tell him to leave because it's your seat and nobody can sit in your seat. But Paul here…" said Ritchie, looking pointedly at Paul

"Hey!" protested the aforementioned. "I didn't want to be rude."

"Yes, you also didn't want to be rude to that bug that was in your room yesterday," said George.

"I don't like smushing things!"

"We had to do it for you."

"After you tried to catch it and keep it as a pet," said Ritchie, piling onto the assault on Paul, who frowned and crossed his arms so tightly it was a wonder his chest didn't implode.

"Maybe Paul's a girl," suggested John. The boy was rather feminine, and the fact that he hadn't had a haircut in a while only added to the impression of androgyny. Paul gave John such a look of betrayal and incredulousness that John just had to grin. Paul couldn't help smiling in response, and soon all four boys were rolling about and laughing until their sides hurt.

"I'm-" wheezed Paul. "I'm not a- a girl," he finished.

"Of course," said Ritchie, flashing the others a wink. The mood suddenly became more quiet and intense. The oppressively bleak hospital walls seemed to weight on the boys, and they noticed that the other kids had left.

"What happens now?" asked John, in a rare moment of seriousness. It seemed the less whimsical his life became, the sillier he got, but sometimes it did catch up with him.

"It's late," said Ritchie. "So you'll probably go back to your room, we'll all go home, and then in two days they'll let you out and everything will be nice and fine again." It appeared that Ritchie didn't really get the point of John's question. He wasn't of the sort to be bothered with wondering about the future or pondering life's questions, much preferring to live his life out the way he wanted, in happiness and mirth and spontaneity.

"No, not just now," rebuffed John, slightly annoyed at Ritchie's short-term thinking. "I mean after." Nobody said anything, so he just continued. "My mum hates me now, and Bobby's gone, and I don't know what to do. Do you guys know what I did?"

The other boys shook their heads and looked at him intently, like they were about to hear a big national secret. Apparently their parents had decided to shelter them from what was right in front of them, and it made John extremely angry, although he didn't readily display it, that they got to have a normal and sheltered childhood while he didn't.

"Bobby was mean," he explained, taking a look around at his friends. Their expressions remained unchanged. "And he hit me and mum." Paul's eyes went wide and his mouth opened into an 'O' shape. Ritchie simply nodded sadly- John remembered then that Ritchie knew, since that first day they'd met. George still sat quietly, like he was taking in the information. "And he drank alcohol, and then he'd get mean. And he'd call me bad names, and hit me, and kick me, and use hot things to burn me, and he made me drink Windex, and he took off his belt and whipped me with it or cut me or put his cigarettes out on me. And he'd do it to mum too."

Paul looked absolutely horrified, Ritchie had his eyes closed like he was about to throw up, and George still looked at him with his wide, knowing eyes, keeping his emotions in check as usual. John continued on, telling his story in all the details, sparing no overly descriptive adjectives as he regaled his tale bitterly to his friends, letting out his secrets. He had just finished the last part, the worst part that still haunted him at night, when suddenly Paul decided he couldn't take it anymore.

"You killed him! You killed your stepfather!" he exclaimed, standing up quickly and running over to the other side of the room and booking it out the door, like if he stayed any longer John would shoot him too. By this point, John was spent- pouring your heart out to the people who mean most to you really takes energy, and Paul abandoning him in what could only be disgust- the same that John's mother had expressed towards him- simply seemed to crush what was left his heart into little tiny pieces and set them on fire, as he personally would have put it. The remaining three friends were quiet for a minute, an uncomfortable silence blanketing them, before Ritchie mumbled something about calming down Paul and ran out too.

This left John and George together. John turned away from his friend and stared uncomfortably at the imperfections in the floor, and traced one with his finger so he wouldn't look as mortified as he felt.

"You didn't kill him, you know," said George, looking at John, who glanced up at him. The smaller boy sat against the wall, legs straight out in front of him, twiddling his thumbs. His head was bent down, but his serious, searching eyes bore into John's with the same mesmerizing power of Rasputin- except without the evil. George was like that.

"Yeah, I did," said John bitterly, his eyes stinging with unshed tears. "Weren't you listening?"

"No," said George insistently, scooting over so he was right in front of John before continuing. "You saved your mother. And yourself."

John gave him a skeptical expression, but said nothing.

"What I mean is that you were just, you know, protecting yourself, right? So it's okay. If he was going to kill you guys, then you're, like… what's the word?" His vocabulary wasn't quite large enough to accommodate his thoughts on the matter.

After a short pause of consideration, John suggested, "Justified?"

"Exactly," said George. "See, you're smart too. And anyway, if shooting Bobby was wrong, then you would've been arrested, but you weren't. I mean, grownups are pretty stupid a lot of times, but they usually know when it's okay to do things better than Paul does. Paul's a git." Despite the slight moroseness of his words George was acting uncharacteristically optimistic, although in a subdued fashion that was so very typical of him. John sniffled a little bit and looked up.

"Is he really?"

"Yes. He's the biggest git I know sometimes. Except for Oliver Danes." Oliver was a boy one grade older than them that regularly picked on the boys, with the exception of John, who put up much too tough a front to be bullied, although Oliver certainly tried. George was his biggest victim, and although he always walked home from school with one of them, there were times when the small boy would be hoisted up by his lapels and tossed in the closest rubbish bin. Yes, Oliver Danes had over time inspired quite a few deprecating drawings courtesy of John and sarcastic slurs courtesy of George. Ringo tried his best to 'convert' Oliver to being 'good', but his attempts always failed. For some reason, however, Paul was lucky enough to stay clear of his wrath.

John grimaced as he recollected of the awful, awful boy. "Yeah. Not as bad as Oliver Danes. He's still a git, though."

"Definitely," suddenly changing the subject, George added "Mum doesn't like that word."

"Which one?" It was baffling to John that a parent could get mad just because of one little word.

"'Yeah'. She doesn't like American things." John didn't respond, and the conversation dwindled into nothingness. Eventually, they began a game of marbles, which John won, but not by much. At some point when they were drawing mustaches on all the characters in the books (which was John's idea- George didn't condone the whole idea of vandalism, but he followed the older boy's lead anyway), a portly nurse walked into the small play area and told them that visiting hours were over and John had to go back to his room. John made a funny face at her- which she didn't find at all amusing- and she led him out down the hallway.

"Bye, Georgie!" called John over his shoulder. George waved in response before ambling the other way down the hallway to where his mother Louise stood waiting. John turned back around and let himself be led into his room, to his awful roommates and the bare, depressing walls and lumpy mattress. But somehow, at least at the time, he didn't think it to be so bad. Wordlessly the nurse left, shutting off the light behind her, and John fell asleep almost immediately.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N SOOOO so sorry for the long wait! Disgraceful, I know... sigh. Well here it is for ya! Enjoy, party people :)**

**-Claire**

September 28, 1948

John stood in front of the mirror, stripped of his shirt, and looked intently at his own body. His chest was lacking the bruises that had discolored it when he first came, but the absence of them showed the scars that tore across it, the cigarette burns that left small, dark pink circles on his body. There was one long burn mark halfway down his arm and across his chest, from above his elbow to the opposite collarbone, and it didn't hurt to touch or even when he rubbed his shirt on it, but it would be there forever. The doctors had told him so, but he probably would have figured it out anyway. He could remember clearly the day he had gotten it too.

_It was late, very late, at night and a six-year old John silently stood on the kitchen chair and held the bottle over the sink, gently pouring the brandy from it and letting it trickle down the drain. Nervously, he looked left, right and behind him as he poured, bottle after bottle, more and more frantically, for each passing second is another sound of pouring lifeblood that Bobby could hear. He picked up another bottle, this one heavier than the rest, with a large cork stopping it. He grabbed the cork and pulled- but nothing happened. He pulled harder, and harder, and harder, and eventually the cork flew off, landing across the kitchen. The bottle slipped from his grasp and crashed on the floor, shattering into greenish-tinted glass that skittered across the floor like wisps of smoke._

_There was a crash, the slamming of a door, the sound of a strike accompanied by the resigned whimper of a long-suffering wife. Thundering footsteps got closer and closer, louder and louder, and John could only stand on his stool, petrified in fear, surrounded with the undeniable evidence of what he had done._

_Bobby rounded the corner, eyes livid as he saw what had happened. Before John knew what was happening, he was on the tiled floor, on the glass, sharp shards slicing his skin, and the hits were coming, the kicks, and they all rattled him to his core. Profanities resonated, bouncing off the walls and making his ears ring. Above him, the face of the devil looked down, and although the mouth was silent John could see the insults that the eyes portrayed._

_"I'm sorry," whispered John._

_"Sorry's not good enough," said Bobby, his awful teeth breaking into a sadistic grin._

_And he grabbed the iron-_

John shook his head, freeing himself from the temporary flashback. He rubbed his eyes vigorously, but the action did nothing to remove the image from his mind. Sighing, he pulled on his shirt, one of his own which Mary had been nice enough to get from his house, pulled on his shoes, and left the room.

It was the last time he would ever see this room, and John knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he wouldn't miss it in the slightest. The room was miserable. He smirked at the jealous faces of his roommates before he left, holding the hand of his newly-appointed social worker.

Mrs. Rachel Watts was a young woman, new to the business, who had been assigned to take care of John while they were sorting out where he should go once the whole Bobby affair had blown over. She was, of course, well versed in the specific situation John found himself in, but treated him no differently from any other child for it, and for that John liked her very much. Plus, she was pretty- thin, with blonde hair in the current style of a sleek, twisted, wavy bun, and blue eyes. She could have been a model, in John's opinion.

Rachel led him down the hallways, smiling as he chattered on about nothing in particular, until they got down to the hospital waiting room. The waiting room was a large, white room sort of like what one would imagine the waiting are for the afterlife would be like- full of people from every walk of life, all hoping for one thing but knowing that they would probably get another. In addition to the frazzled families, injured patients, and rushing staff that normally populated the place, there were also two men, both wearing suits, who summoned Rachel over towards them. She left John near the entrance, and told him to wait there for the time being.

As she talked to the men in suits, John traced the gritty, grey tiles on the floor with his foot. At some point, he had gotten new shoes, and while they looked exactly like the shapeless, uniform loafers that all little boys of the time wore, he was glad to have them. His old ones had a hole on the bottom of the left that he stopped up with cardboard and were much too small (he had been much too afraid to ask Bobby, or even his mother, for new shoes). He looked up discreetly, and Rachel and the men in suits were arguing, loud enough that other people in the room were inching away from them. He leaned against a nearby instrument cart, planning on looking cool and nonchalant like the bad boys in the movies. However, what he didn't plan on was the cart having wheels, and before he could notice what was going on and catch himself, he was crashing onto the floor, the cart turning on its side and raining scalpels, scissors, and other instruments on him.

"John!" said a voice. Looking up from his new position on the floor, John saw none other than Mary, who lifted him up by the shoulders and sat him down in a nearby chair before summoning a janitor to clean up the mess. She headed back over to John and began checking him over. "Are you alright? What on earth were you doing anyway? You know those things have wheels!" John scowled at the unwelcome assault and scooted away from her.

"I'm fine," he muttered. More embarrassed, he added "I was trying to look cool like those guys in the moving pictures." Mary's face softened, and she sighed.

"You're cool enough as you are, John," she said, ruffling his hair. She looked over her shoulder and saw the argument between Rachel and the men in suits. "Do you know what's going on over there?"

John shook his head. "No."

As if they heard them talking about them, the three adults looked over at John, Rachel with an expression of resigned disdain, and the men in suits with no expression at all. The two men walked out the door, and Rachel headed over to John, her satchel slung across her shoulder. She was muttering something about men- which Mary could understand, as a woman working in a position such as Rachel was always subject to being judged as incompetent. "Is there a problem, Miss Watts?" she asked.

Rachel sighed. "Yes, there is. May I ask who you are?"

Both of them seemed to forget John for the moment as they began discussing things together. "I'm Mary McCartney, the mother of one of John's friends. What is the problem here?"

"Well," began Rachel, taking a seat in the chair next to Mary, who sat down beside her. "Apparently, John's Aunt Anne, who was supposed to care for him in his mother's absence, has come down with an unfortunately timed case of the flu."

"Is she all right?" asked John. He was ignored.

"Well, can he not go to another one of his aunt or uncles' house?"

"The only one that has the ability to care for him is his Aunt Mimi, but we have had no way to contact her. The other ones are either out of country or don't have the resources to care for another child, and we would rather not have him with any of his stepfather's relatives at the moment."

"So what does this mean for him?" asked Mary.

"It means that he'll be put with a foster family until his mother's release, which is set for the fifth of-"

"No!" said John. "I don't want to be with strangers!" The two women looked at him shocked. "I don't like strangers! I don't want to be with new people! I want to be with my mum but she doesn't want to be with me!" He was trying not to cry, and for the first time, succeeding. "She hates me! She hates me because I killed Bobby! I hate me!" What had used to be self-pity was turning into anger, and John didn't even care that he was yelling at that moment, didn't even care that people were looking at him strangely. "Everyone hates me!"

"John," whispered Mary, pulling him into a hug. "Everybody doesn't hate you. Nobody has any reason to hate you, least of all yourself." John sat woodenly in Mary's arms, trying not to let her know how much he loved her comforting embrace. Mary turned to Rachel.

"I'll take him," she said. Rachel looked at her, surprised.

"Excuse me?"

"I'll bring John to my house. It's only for a week. And this way, he won't have to re-acclimate to new people. After all, you and I both know it's the last thing he needs at the time. On the sixth he can go over to his own house and back with his mother. By this point, she had let John go, and he swung his legs over the edge of the couch and ran his hand through his own hair.

"Really?" he asked. "You'd do that?"

"Of course," said Mary. "That is, if it's allowed." She gave Rachel a look.

Rachel re-adjusted her bag and stood up. "Yes, it is. It makes things very much easier; there'll be no paperwork to fill out or anything. You can take him now?" May nodded. "Very well. John, I'll see you on the sixth to bring you back to your mother's." with that in mid, she turned and walked out the door.

John looked up at Mary and smiled. "Really? I get to go with you?" He looked at her hopefully.

"Yes," she said, standing up and taking his hand. "Come on." And, with that, she led the small, grinning boy out of the hospital doors, hopefully forever.

Much like most Liverpudlians of the day, Mary and Jim McCartney didn't own a car, so the duo took the bus over to where their house was. Mary had bicycled over there, she explained, but it wouldn't do for the little boy to run alongside her as she pedaled home. She'd simply take the bus to work the next morning and bring her bike home that afternoon. John, however, was only half listening as she explained this. Part of him was looking out the window as the city sped by, but the other part of him was worrying about Paul.

The two boys hadn't spoken since the day John told them what had happened that had landed him there in the hospital. In John's opinion, and George and Ritchie agreed, Paul was overreacting (which he did tend to do a lot), but normally when the boys would have a spat they would be angry for a few minutes and then make up, no apologies needed, and continue on with life as if nothing. Still yet, it had been two days since he had seen Paul, and while that could be theoretically chalked up to Paul having things to do at home that kept him from visiting, John had a feeling Paul's thoughts toward the situation ran much deeper than any previous argument. Although Ritchie and George assured him he would come around, John wasn't quite so sure. He certainly knew Paul had the capacity for holding grudges even longer than him.

"John?" said Mary's voice. "We're here." She took his hand and led him out of the bus, tipping the driver two pence on the way out. Once they were on the sidewalk, the bus sped away in a puff of smoke and the muted sound of wheels against pavement. John smiled at the sight of the McCartney household- small, quaint, homey, painted yellow. It was so unlike the red brick, cracked, impersonal abode he called home. He certainly had a feeling that he would like staying here until his mother was released, regardless of any awkwardness that existed between him and Paul. He followed Mary up the little walkway, and hopped about as she unlocked the door and subsequently started a search for her husband.

"Paul and Mike are upstairs, in their rooms probably. I have to go tell my husband you're here. Dinner is at six thirty, depending on how long the cooking takes. Oh, and John?" John, already halfway up the stairs, turned suddenly and looked at her quizzically. "Please tell Paul he needs to take a bath beforehand. He stinks to high heaven." John grinned and stifled a laugh. He continued his trek up the stairs and found himself in Paul's room. It had blue walls, a desk, and a bed big enough for a full-size person with a quilt on it that, according to Paul, his grandmother had knitted. He had a dresser drawer, and lots of pictures adorning the room. It certainly embodied every bit of Paul, his neatness, cleanliness, affinity for the color blue, and most importantly his individuality that took the form of the toys, towers, and haphazardly filled in coloring book pages that adorned the free space. There was even a small tin labeled _Candy _where he kept all his sweet ration coupons. The only reason John hadn't stolen any of them was that Paul kept a tally of how many there were. He was annoyingly mature that way.

Suddenly, John was interrupted by a loud, feminine squeal. He turned suddenly to see Paul, seemingly fresh out of the bath, wearing his pajamas and holding a towel in front of him protectively. His dark hair was wet and sticking up in all directions and his hazel eyes were wide with surprise. "How'd you get in here?!" he asked, standing in the doorway.

John looked at the other wall uncomfortably. "Well, I'm staying here. Until my mum gets out."

"Oh," said Paul. "I thought you were going to your aunt's house."

"Well I'm not," snapped John, harsher than he intended. He was still mad at Paul. The other boy shrunk back against the doorframe, dropping the towel to the floor and combing his fingers through his wet hair.

"'M sorry," muttered Paul.

John smiled smugly. "I can't hear you."

"I said I'm sorry," said Paul loudly. His voice then got softer, and he continued. "I probably would've done the same thing, I guess. He deserved it anyway."

"Well, if it makes you feel any better I didn't want to." Paul simply nodded and played with his hair, twirling strands of it between his fingers, a feat made even more difficult by how short it was. Suddenly, however, he perked up and looked at John excitedly.

"Hey," he said.

John looked up at him. "What?" he asked.

"The water's still in the bath. Let's play!"

Grinning, John nodded eagerly and the two boys ran over to the bathroom. Sure enough, the tub was still full of soapy water, and Paul's rubber duck and toy boat were still floating aimlessly on the top. Smiling wildly, John jumped in clothes and all, causing a bunch of water to splash out down the sides of the tub and on to the floor. He dipped his head under and popped back up again, bubbles in his hair. The water was cold, but he didn't care.

Paul simply looked at his friend, a look of blatant sacrilege on his face. "What are you doing?!"

"Playing! Hop in, Paulie!" John jumped up and down, splashing water at Paul, who jumped back once it hit him and squealed.

"You're getting water everywhere! And your clothes are wet! This was a bad idea…" it seemed the thought was just occurring to him, and Paul wrung his hands nervously as he surveyed the water on the tile floor. John simply floated on his back, amused.

"Come on, Paulie," he wheedled. "It's fun." Nervously, Paul crept over to the edge of the tub- a plan which proved not to be a good idea, for the second he got close enough John's hand was on his pajama collar pulling him in with him. Gracelessly, the little boy fell headfirst into his bathtub. After a minute or two of coughing and sputtering, he opened his eyes and saw John, who was sitting in the water mere inches from him with a smug look on his face. Paul's expression, however, was more of one of incredulousness.

"Why'd you do _that_?" he whined, angrily splashing John, who much to his annoyance only laughed. "Johnny, it's not funny!"

"Yes it is."

"No it isn't!"

"Yes."

"No!"

"Yes! And you know it!" At this point, Paul splashed John again, who splashed back in a more lighthearted fashion. Paul continued the cycle, and so did John, until they were both blindly splashing each other and both laughing, any previous annoyance forgotten.

John grabbed Paul's boat and balanced the rubber duck on the top.

"Oh, Britannia, Britannia rules the seeeeas…" he sung, loudly and slightly off-key. He grabbed the duck and began smashing it against the boat. "Oh no! Britannia is being attacked by Paul, the giant evil duck!"

Paul confiscated the duck from John's grasp and used it to push down the ship. "_John _the evil duck is bent on destruction!"

"World domination!" chimed in John.

"WORLD DOMA… DOMI… DESTRUCTIOOOON!" Evidently, in addition to not knowing how to pronounce 'destruction' Paul was getting extremely carried away. John grabbed the boat and hit the duck with it mercilessly.

"Britannia is back from the dead!" he called. "And it wants revenge!" Just then, a voice lofted up the stairs. It was one Mary McCartney.

"John! Paul! Mike!" she shouted. "I have dinner!" As Mike's pattering footsteps sounded down the stairs, the two boys in the bathtub shared glances, Paul's of horrified fear and John's more of amused indifference.

"Johnny…" said Paul, looking scared. "We're wet."

"So?"

"What do you mean? We'll get in trouble!"

"No we won't," John rebuffed calmly, standing up and shaking out his hair. Wordlessly, he wrung out his pants and shirt the best he could and stood at the doorway. "What are you waiting for?" he asked.

Paul simply shook his head and followed suit, squeezing as much water from his green pajamas as possible and finger-combing his hair. He muttered something about being grounded, but John didn't pay any attention and instead led the way down the stairs.

"Boys- oh," said Mary, as she noticed the two seven-year olds rounding the bottom of the banister. "I was just about to call you. Dinner's on the table, I've set an extra place for John right next to you, Paul, and-" she suddenly seemed to notice their appearance. "Why on earth are you wet?"

"We bathed, like you said," said John, only partially lying.

"I didn't say you had to John," stated Mary, not unkindly. "Only Paul."

John shrugged. "I felt like keeping him company."

"And you did all this…" Mary said slowly, like a detective uncovering the clues to a case. "Wearing your clothes?"

Again, John was quick with a response. "They needed a bath too."

Mary, it seemed, wasn't angry, and instead smiled at them. She ruffled John's wet hair. "Smart boy. You'll do good things if you can stay out of trouble." John stood proud and smiled boastfully at Paul, who stood flabbergasted, his mouth hanging open. "But there'd better not be any water on the floor by tomorrow morning." Both boys' expressions soured somewhat at the prospect of cleaning. Mary waltzed over to the dining room, closely followed by John and Paul.

"Gobsmacked, huh?" he asked smugly, tactfully keeping his voice down. "Told you."

"Hush up," muttered Paul, who sat down in a chair he wasn't quite big enough for and gestured John to sit at the one next to him. The other boy obliged, sitting down next to his friend. Jim, Paul's father, sat at the head of the table, and Mary at the opposite end. Directly across from John and Paul Mike sat. For his part, Mike was a big boy, large for his age of five, and had less trouble than Paul with the chair proportions. That's just how large (not fat, but large) he was.

In front of them was a plate of peas, carrots, some bread, and yes, even a little bit of meat, a rare and stingily rationed commodity. Personally, John rarely got meat. Although he absolutely loved the taste, a lot of the really scarce rations got traded off by Bobby for booze, and as such all the Dykins-Stanley-Lennon household had in stock was often stale bread and vegetables, sometimes bad. John was just about to seize his fork and dig in, but Mary stopped him.

"John," she said quietly. "Would you like to say Grace?" John simply looked at her, baffled, until she explained. "It's where we thank God for the food we have and ask him to bless it before we eat. We can also thank Him for what we have in other respects."

"Oh," said John. Now that he thought of it, he had heard Grace being said, at Paul and George's houses. Not so Much Ritchie's, as although him and his mother went to church they weren't too religious. As for John, the idea of God was one never talked about where he came from. The McCartney's held hands and lowered their heads, and he began, nervously at first, but more confident as he went on.

"Um, thanks, God," he said. "Thanks for the really good food, and thanks that Miss Mary's a really good cook. Thanks for bringing me here too, because these people are really nice. Please make mum better soon. Oh, and tell the devil not to be too rough on Bobby down there, cause I think he did like my mum a little bit and didn't hit her too often… but still don't let him up there with you." He suddenly realized he was rambling, and wrapped it up quickly. "Uh, thanks again. You're really great. Amen."

Everyone let go of their hands quickly and tucked into the meal, John the most enthusiastically. Mary really was a superb cook. "That was wonderful, John," said the woman in question. Blushing, John nodded and continued on his carrots intently.

"Hey dad," said Paul.

"Yes, son?" replied Jim.

"We have to do a project at school about our family, and we have to write a whole page, about you and mum and Mike and maybe even grandma and grandpa! It's not due until Friday though, so I have time. There's a new girl in my class. Her name is Michelle. She's pretty. I think I want to marry her…" Paul continued on, and as for John, he just sat quietly, eating contentedly, basking in the love that surrounded the McCartney family and his first-ever family dinner.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N Well, here's another update for y'all! Chapter 12, yay! Remeber people, reviews, reviews, reviews! They make my day! Enjoy, please, this one's pretty long.**

**-Claire**

September 29, 1948

"Paul! Mike! John! School starts in an hour, get up!" the call awoke John, who opened his eyes suddenly and shook Paul, who was still sleeping next to him, awake.

Since the McCartney house lacked any guest rooms, it was agreed by mutual consensus that John would share Paul's bed for the time being- it was plenty big enough for both of them, and as Paul had said so enthusiastically, it would be exactly like a sleepover. And it certainly had been- they talked all night long (mostly Paul for once, and mostly about Michelle, who he had really taken a shining to). The effects of this all-night talkathon were definitely having their effects, and the two boys hadn't gotten much sleep. John, however, was much too excited to be going back to see his friends to be tired.

"Paaaaauuuulieeeee," he whined, tapping his head. "Paulie, wake up."

He stirred, but didn't open his eyes.

"Wake up."

"Mm." It was a short sound, more of a grunt than an actual response. Rolling his eyes, John grabbed the top of the covers and ripped them off his friend, who cringed but didn't wake up, only burrowing deeper into the mattress, like he wanted it to absorb him. John was desperate by this point, and he stood on the bed and jumped up and down, hard enough that Paul literally bounced up and down on the mattress. This, finally, woke him up and he sat up.

"What are you doing?" Paul said, groggily. It was actually more of a whine than anything else. 'Stop doing that, Johnny!" he added, referring to John's jumping, which even though Paul was awake he hadn't ceased. "You'll hurt yourself!"

"No I won't!" John rebuffed happily. Just as he said it, however, his foot got tangled in the sheets, and he promptly fell onto the bed, knocked his head on the wooden end, and toppled over onto the floor. "Mmf," he muttered, lying rather ridiculously face down on the floor.

"John!" shouted Paul, hopping off the bed and pulling his friend up from the floor. "Are you alright?"

"Never better…" John muttered, rubbing his head embarrassedly.

"MUUUUUUUUUUUM!" yelled Paul. "JOHN FELL OUT OF THE BED!"

"Shut up, Paul!" hissed John. The little boy looked scandalized, and his mouth hang open.

"You swore!"

"Did not," replied John. "And I'm fine. I told you."

"Is he alright, Paul?" called Mary from downstairs.

"I'm fine, Miss Mary!" the boy in question hastily replied, clapping a hand over Paul's mouth (who was about to respond otherwise).

"Okay," she said. "Be ready in twenty minutes! You still have breakfast to eat, and you know how long those bus rides are!" John and Paul voiced their confirmations and quickly went about what they had to do with little incident- getting dressed, brushing their teeth, combing their hair, going to the bathroom, and then raced downstairs into the kitchen.

Mary, holding two bowls of oatmeal, eyed them amusedly as they arrived, completely disheveled and out of breath from the race down. She placed the food on the table (Mike was already eating, and Jim had a piece of toast in front of him and was reading the newspaper).

"Boys," she chided. "No running." She gestured them to sit in the same seats as last night, and both boys, somewhat reluctantly, began eating their breakfast- oatmeal. Across the table, Mike was pretending to eat, his dark, serious face flitting left and right as he discreetly spooned the mush into his school bag. Paul ate mechanically, but John was ravenous- perhaps it had something to do with the fact that there was so little food at his own home- and finished the bowl in no time at all. Paul finished soon after, and they grabbed their bags and began out the door.

"Wait!" called Mary. "Get your coats!" John and Paul sighed and fetched their coats, which they shrugged on and started to leave again. Mike, by this point, was following close behind him, the bottom of his bag noticeably wet from the oatmeal. "Where are your hats?" added Mary. All three got their respective caps (it was drizzling slightly outside, which was the cause for the fuss). Finally, after they were properly dressed, they all got kisses on the forehead (even John) and ran outside just in time to catch the city bus.

"Take care of your brother, Paul!" was the last thing they heard before they boarded, and the doors closed behind them.

"Hello, Mr. Harrison!" Paul said chirpily as he passed the driver. The man waved back and voiced his own gruff greeting in response. The driver was George's father, and they saw him very often, twice a day on the bus and even more when they went to George's house. Mr. Harrison was a nice enough man, although he was terribly practical and rather boring. He was the quintessential Liverpool grownup, and as such he didn't really approve of the 'silly' games his sons played. As such, he wasn't really any of the group's favorite adult, but they tried to be nice all the same so they'd still be let in his house.

John and Paul took seats next to each other, and since there were no other seats close by, Mike was forced to sit in the back between two loud, overweight women. He looked very uncomfortable. The other two, however, passed the time in the easy conversation that can go between two best friends, familiarly and calmingly. Talking to one's best friend is like sipping hot chocolate by the fire while your favorite song plays on the radio.

"Hello," said a voice. The two looked up to see the George, standing in front of them in the aisle with his bag over his shoulder. Obediently, they scooted over, allowing the new arrival room to squeeze in between them. They got a few dirty looks from the adults (as for almost all adults, children and their antics are a mere nuisance), but ignored them. "Ritchie's not coming to school today," he said.

"Why not?" asked Paul, at the same time John asked "How do you know?"

"His mum called," replied George. "She says he's sick."

"Oh," said Paul. "Well, this sure blows!" Such an outburst is unusual for Paul, and his two companions eyed him oddly, with a mixture of surprise and confusion.

"Sure does," replied George, swinging his legs over the edge of the seat, and activity which he would have to stop soon because he was almost tall enough that his feet touched the floor. He hummed a tune absentmindedly as Paul sulked.

"Why does this blow?" asked John. In his opinion, it wouldn't be very much fun without Ritchie, but his absence for one or two days certainly didn't spell the end of the world.

"Well, because!" Paul cried, with an expression that the reasoning of 'just cause' was the most obvious in the world. "We just got you back today! And now Ritchie's gone! Don't you know what this means?" he looked at his best friend, who was completely at a loss, imploringly.

"No, I don't know what it means, you git!" said John, annoyed. Paul, for once, let the 'swear' slide.

"It means," said George, slowly and dolefully like he was delivering the secrets of the universe, "That Liam Fleischman will try to sit with us again."

"Oh," John said, nodding in understanding. "That is bad." Liam Fleischman was known throughout school as being smelly, sticky, dirty, loud, and on top of it all, he wasn't very nice but tried to be friends with people anyway. While George for his part was always one willing to befriend the friendless, Liam Fleischman simply was not the kind of person that anybody, no matter how saintly, could stand to be friends with.

"Tuna boy," muttered Paul. The bus passed Ritchie's stop, and while a few adults and a girl who went to the secondary school got on, the fourth piece to the puzzle was obviously missing. The remainder of the ride passed in idle conversation until they alighted at the school.

The day passed as it normally did. Classes were as boring as ever, the same arithmetic lessons and grammar lectures, but the three boys sat in the back and talked quietly, never getting caught as usual. Although all were smart, they weren't very good students- John especially, who simply lacked the interest for relearning such trivial things he already knew. First grade, however, is an easy time, and even though they didn't pay any attention whatsoever they got good marks.

Recess. While the other children played, the other three were much more bookish than they were physical, and they simply sat in a tree and talked. In a way, it was like class, except outside and in a much more precarious position.

Then, the dreaded event came: lunch. They got their food from the line (George, it seemed, had twice as much food as the other two combined) and sat at their usual seats. The cafeteria was crowded with rowdy children, some of which, John included, were engaging in a food fight that took several minutes to be broken up. John, who apparently had a magical ability to do naughty things and not get caught, quickly ducked out and returned to the table his friends were at, surprisingly not covered in pasta as the others were, only to see not Liam Fleischman but Oliver Danes in his seat.

"That's my seat," said John flatly, crossing his arms. His, George, Paul, and Ritchie's loathing for Oliver was one shared by pretty much the rest of the first grade, the kindergarten, and most of the second grade. That is, except for his gang, a group of six other boys who regularly terrorized anybody they were big enough to. The tight-knit foursome was a personal favorite of his. John regularly challenged him (it was for this reason that Oliver rarely picked on them when they were together), Paul less so, Ringo did his best to stay out of it, but poor George would always fall victim to being chased around the schoolyard, or tossed in the rubbish bin, shoved in a locker, hoisted by his undergarments and hung on a stall in the boy's bathroom.

"Looks like little Johnny is back!" said Oliver, condescendingly. For a seven (or eight, John wasn't sure) year old, he had powers of belittlement to rival even the coldest of adults. "How's the stepfather?"

Paul's made an 'ooh' shape, and quickly clapped his hands over his mouth, either in surprise or to stop himself from speaking up. George grasped his plastic fork so hard it splintered into two, but nobody noticed. John's anger flared, and he clenched his fists. "Get out of my seat," he hissed, dangerously low. He leaned his face close to Oliver's, and looked at him with narrowed eyes. For once in his life, he felt powerful. John wasn't scared, he was scary. The older boy mirrored his actions, and looked at him with the same expression of pure, unadulterated malice.

The chair fell backward and screeched as Oliver suddenly stood up. He was about four centimeters taller than John was, and in his new position he looked down at John before suddenly bursting into cold laughter. "See you later, killer boy," he whispered in John's ear, voice dripping with misdirected hate. Waving mockingly, he skipped off, and John sighed, letting his wall down in the sole presence of his friends. The protective shield he always kept around him was gone, suddenly replaced by a more resolute sadness, like the world was weighing on his shoulders instead of his projected demeanor of carefree confidence.

Silently, Paul picked up the chair, and John mumbled a halfhearted 'Ta' before sitting down. He twirled his fork in the mushy food before deciding he wasn't hungry anymore and pushing his plate over to George, who silently ate it and all his own food.

"Oliver's a git, Johnny," said Paul, looking at his friend, who slumped in his seat and twiddled his thumbs slowly. "He doesn't know what he's talking about."

"No," John said hollowly. "He knew."

"Knew what?" asked Paul.

So he hadn't heard. Not surprising, since Oliver had uttered his last comment quietly. "He _knew, _Paul. He knew what I did." John sighed, leaning his head forward. The shameful guilt that had pestered him every day since the 21st, _that day, _crept up on him again, as it did often. He didn't cry though. There were way too many people around to be breaking down.

"Don't listen to him," said George. "He's not worth it. It doesn't matter. And you know why?" He didn't wait for a response before continuing. "Because someday really far off, all of us are going to die. Everyone in this room, and in this school. You, and me, and Ritchie, and Paul, we're all going to die one day."

"That's pretty depressing, Geo," Paul muttered, looking suddenly forlorn.

"No it's not," he countered. "When we do, we'll all go up to heaven and be with everyone we love and be happy and comfortable, and nobody will fight and throw each other in the rubbish bin or shove them in backpacks. And people like Oliver Danes, or Bobby, and other mean people, they'll go down. We'll be happy, and they'll be burning in hell forever." The other boys took a moment to mull this thought over. They looked at George, but his moment of philosophy was gone, and he was back to silently stealing from Paul's plate just like normal.

"Yeah, Georgie," said John, slowly, still ruminating on his thoughts. "You're right. We'll all be in heaven, someday. Heaven forever."

"And everyone who was ever mean to us…" began Paul.

"Will be in hell," finished George. John and Paul nodded.

"Yeah, that," whispered John. But it was a happy kind of whisper, of final self-satisfaction.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N Here's chapter 13 for you guys, simply brimming with surprises! Hope you like it. Working on the edits for chapter two. Review, please! Mucho appreciado :)**

**-Claire**

September 30, 1948

It was a cloudy day, five in the afternoon, and peacefully quiet at the McCartney household when several knocks, all very close together, made themselves heard on the front door. The noise reverberated around the house.

"Paul! Could you get the door?" Jim McCartney called out to his eldest son from the top floor. He had just returned from his job selling cotton, and was getting ready for a shower. Mary had returned from work a few hours before, and was at a friend's house for tea.

"Sure, dad!" Paul called back. The knocks got louder and louder- it seemed whoever was knocking was keen on breaking down the door. Refocusing his attention to John, who had just recently fallen asleep next to him in the living room, Paul shook his friends' shoulder roughly. "Johnny, get up," he said. John shot up like a bullet and yelped, looking at Paul with an expression of fear before he came to his senses.

"Oh," he said, relieved. "It's you, Paul."

Paul chose to ignore what had taken place. John often got irrationally scared when woken up too suddenly, and although he knew the cause he never brought the problem up. The knocking on the door had gotten louder, more frenzied. "Someone's at the door," he said rather unnecessarily. John nodded, and the two boys bounded to the door and opened it to see, of all people George, standing alone at the front step, hand still in position to knock.

"Georgie?" asked Paul, confused. The new arrival dropped his hand, his shoulders stooped. George wasn't one to just randomly show up at the door, and his sudden appearance was uncharacteristic.

"Ritchie's in the hospital," he said. He looked close to tears, a fact which scared the other two boys more than the news itself. If George was going to _cry, _then it was bad. George hadn't even cried when he was hung by his underwear on the doorknob of the girl's locker room. Whatever reason Ritchie had been hospitalized, it must be a big one.

"A hospital?!" asked Paul, clapping his hands on each of his cheeks in complete horror. "What happened? Is he all right? Is that why he was out today and yesterday? Will he be alright? Is he hurt? Is he sick? Will he get better?" Questions tumbled from the young boy's mouth unceasingly, like he was projectile vomiting words. It appeared that Paul was on the verge of one of his panic attacks, and as the other two boys knew all too well, if someone didn't stop his emotions from rising he'd reach the point of no return and devolve into a complete nervous breakdown.

"Get it together," John growled offhandedly, grabbing both Paul and George's hands. Without a second thought or even asking anybody else, he stalked out the door and began down the road, still dragging along his friends. He hadn't even bothered to close the door behind them. Paul was no longer bombarding George with questions; his panic attack seemingly shocked into remission, and instead he just looked at John confusedly.

"Johnny?" he asked, somewhat hesitantly, as he was dragged along the concrete sidewalk. "Where are you taking us?"

"To the hospital," said John, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Even through his smudged glasses lenses, he noticed the city bus rounding a corner and broke into a run towards it, with the others following closely behind. Their feet pattered on the sidewalk as they ran, but after a little bit they reached the bus, panting. It stopped at the same place Paul got on the bus every morning, and whole slews of people began to board or disembark.

"We don't have money to ride the bus, Johnny," said Paul morosely, sadly watching the grey bus as it idled on the sidewalk.

"Don't need it," John replied. Much to Paul's surprise (although not so much George's, who had actually expected John's seemingly erratic behavior to take place- George was very perceptive, and this allowed him to accurately predict people's behavior even people as unpredictable as John). John cut around to the back of the bus and stepped onto the bumper, and began climbing up to the roof by the emergency ladder that stretched from the bottom of the bus to the roof. With no choice but to follow him, Paul and George stepped onto the ladder also, and soon the threesome found themselves on the sleek, gray top of the city bus.

It was absolutely disgusting, in Paul's opinion, covered in dirt and other types of unknowable filth. Worse than any amount of grime, however, was the very obvious lack of handholds anywhere on the long, hotdog shaped bus. He was very quick to point this out to John, who was sitting next to him. John opened his mouth to say something in response, but quickly clamped it shut. The idea of no handholds truly hadn't occurred to him, and now it would certainly pose a problem.

"Over here, lads!" called George. He had made his way to the center of the bus and was sitting in the small depression of the skylight slash emergency exit, which would allow the required lowness for them not to topple off the bus and onto the unforgiving street the second it made a sharp turn. John and Paul quickly scrambled over and joined George in the small depression just in time for the bus to start down the road with enough starting force to throw the boys off had they not been more secure.

"George," Paul said quietly as the bus rumbled down the road. "Do you know what happened?" His voice was scared and small, almost whipped away by the wind that accosted them on their journey. He regarded his friend, his wide doe eyes looking even sadder than usual.

There was no response for a while from George, save for a sad shake of the head. "No," he sighed, leaning against Paul's shoulder. "I went to his house after school today to bring him all his school stuff, and he was in his room and he said his side really, really hurt. And you know, you could tell too. He had that look on his face. And we talked for a while, then he screamed and he started crying, and Miss Elsie came in and she called the hospital people and they took him away and she went with them, and… and…" George hiccupped slightly and hugged his knees to his chest, chastising himself for it all the time. It certainly wasn't the time to be weak. Resolutely, he wiped the tears out of his eyes and straightened himself up to comfort Paul, who had suddenly started sobbing.

That was who he would be, George decided. The strong one. John could be the smart one, the protector of all, strong willed and tough. Paul would be the practical one, the worrier, who could always be counted on to care about you and do the right thing. Ritchie could be the nice one of the group, funny, cheerful and energetic, happy and always your best friend. And as for him, he would take on the role of the strong one, emotionally at least, a shoulder to cry on, a comforter, a steady kind of rock to lean on. It was a cross he was more than willing to bear.

"What if he dies?!" wailed Paul, collapsing into George's arms, knocking his breath out slightly as the larger boy's body weight landed on his chest.

"He won't," said George reassuringly.

"You don't know that!" was the muffled response. Paul's voice was getting weaker. It appeared he was calming down, thankfully. The lull of the bus's movement was soothing, the midday autumn air chilly but not cold. The sun was hidden behind a sheet of dark grey clouds, like it was about to rain. Apparently, if Ritchie was in a bad place, so would the weather. It was only fitting.

The bus stopped rather suddenly for whatever reason, and the three boys lurched into a pileup, one atop the other, which they quickly recovered from. They were almost to the hospital- only one more stop to go until they arrived. John, throughout the whole ride, had been unusually silent, a rarity for him. He simply sat away from Paul and George, curled into a ball, his eyes pointed at the transparent skylight like he was people watching, but George could most definitely tell he wasn't really seeing anything.

"No," said John quietly, not in response to anything excepting the situation at hand. It was one tiny syllable, yet it contained all the woes of the world, more than any six year old (for it would still be ten days before John was seven) should know of. "No, no, no, no, no." John shook his head and repeated the word, like doing so would make it all go away. "No, not Ritchie… Ritchie can't leave me…"

"He'll stay," reassured George, much like he had reassured Paul. Of course, George was completely the opposite of assured that Ritchie was okay, but he kept these worries hidden behind his front of security. George knew have a complete mental breakdown later, now wasn't the time. It was time to help others. It was his job, after all.

"But what if he doesn't?" John's voice was soft and low, like he didn't want Paul to hear- which was probably for the best because Paul's emotional state was extremely fragile at the moment. "What if he leaves, Georgie? What if he leaves like everyone else?"

"Then he'll go to heaven. He'll go to heaven, where there's love everywhere, and peace, and nobody fights or yells and everyone smiles. Where everyone wears white and you have chocolate for breakfast and lunch and dinner, and he'll look at us from there. And we'll make him proud of us up there, and someday we'll see him again, and we can all live there, happy ever after."

It was a very insightful thing to say. John had always believed in, or hoped for, a heaven above. Despite the fact that he wasn't religious- his mother was quite agnostic, and had passed her views onto her son. But despite the lack of a belief in a deity, he did like the idea of an afterlife. He simply nodded, silently crying. Salty tears rolled down his cheeks without a sound as he leaned against his friends, all of them mutually trying to comfort each other. Even George had begun to let himself cry. Around that time, the bus stopped in front of a place that Paul immediately recognized as the hospital.

"Hey," he said, his voice cracking slightly. "We're here."

The three boys quickly climbed down the ladder and onto the street behind the bus. John was last to disembark, and he hopped off the ladder just as the bus lurched forward, sending him forward more than he planned and toppling onto Paul, who landed on George, eventually ending up in all of them in a heap on the road. They quickly recovered and took a moment to cough at the black smoke the departing bus belched at them before scurrying to the sidewalk.

They all regarded the hospital hesitantly. In Liverpool, there weren't very many pretty things. The post-war economy had put a damper on beauty- no or little colors, expression, or art was to be found in the dreary suburbia. But the hospital was probably the worst offender. Built in the early twenties, the cement block had endured twenty-five years of accumulating misery, the effects of which were showing. They walked through the double doors and found themselves in the cramped waiting room. It was the exact same hospital, John realized, that he had been taken to just over a week earlier. It was where Mary worked. He wondered if she was on a shift at the moment before realizing that she had returned to Paul's house before the two of them had even returned home.

The waiting room made Paul extremely nervous, for reasons he had no words to explain. How many times had he been in it visiting his mother and not had a problem? But it was different now. The walls, once just walls, were now like tangible, animated things that spoke to him, taunted him, and glared at him even. It was like when John had been there just a few days ago. Instead of being Nurse McCartney's little boy, adored by all the nurses, in for a short visit, he was a scared, inadequate six year old visiting his friend, one of his best friends, who may or may not be dying. It was a strange feeling, and one he certainly didn't like at all.

George had been the first to locate the front desk, and he pointed it out to Paul, who crossed the room to the intimidating window and tapped on the tabletop to get the woman's attention. She looked up at him with a bored, droll expression. Her lips were smeared with a bright, vibrant color that even Paul, a six year old boy, could tell didn't go well with her skin tone at all. She was probably about fifty years old, and her hair was stringy and much too long. Her nametag read Sheryl.

"What do you want, kid?" she asked condescendingly.

"Do you know where Richard Starkey is?" Paul asked meekly, cowering slightly at her domineering tone and leaning away from her terrible breath.

She sighed and looked in her patient book for a moment, flipping the pages seemingly at leisure as the boys before her began to get antsy. "He's in surgery right now," she said, rather flippantly for the shocking news she just delivered.

John, Paul and George all gasped in unison, not expecting such news. Paul completely lost it again and sunk to the floor, crying. John sat down next to him and hugged his shoulders the way George had done, trying to calm him down. This all left George to continue asking Sheryl questions- a very unfair task to leave him with, as strangers are one of the things he tries desperately to avoid at all costs.

"What kind of surgery?" he asked, wringing his hands nervously.

"An appendectomy."

What on earth was an appendectomy? George had no clue. He was smart, but by no stretch a genius, and his knowledge of medicine or even anatomy for that matter was limited at best, and throw in the ridiculously overcomplicated terminology that ran rampant in the medicine industry and he was bound to be at a loss. "Is that dangerous?" he asked.

"Look, kid," Sheryl said, her scouser accent making her words even more condescending. "I don't know what the hell you want from me, but in case you haven't noticed, this is a hospital, not a questionnaire, and there's a whole big line of people behind you that you're holding up. So how about you take your crybaby friends and get the hell out of my waiting room, because I have a job to do." George stepped back at her sudden anger and looked at the floor, his fragile emotions threatening to spill over. He didn't think there had been any reason to get angry with him.

"Johnny? Paulie? We have to leave now," he informed his friends sadly as Sheryl began to tend to the next person in line to talk to her.

Paul wiped his eyes and stood up with John. "What's wrong with Ritchie?" he asked imploringly.

"Hey! What did I just tell you idiots? Get out!" snapped Sheryl, much to the surprise of the man she had been talking to.

John gritted his teeth and looked hard at the woman, anger clearly in his eyes. "You're a bitch," he said to her deftly, eyes narrowed. She looked like she was about to fly off the handle at him, but before she could he turned his nose up and began walking away, George and Paul following close behind.

They found three chairs as far away from Sheryl as possible and quickly occupied them. Now that the adrenaline rush of going to see their friend had evaporated, they were faced with some very cold, harsh realities. First of all, they were lost. Only by sheer luck had they gotten on the correct bus to get to Newton Memorial Hospital, and there was no way of knowing which bus could take them back to their own houses. Secondly, the clock on the opposite wall pointed out that it was six-thirty, and the sky outside was getting dark, which taking into account Liverpool's copious lack of streetlights would make it even harder to get home safely. Thirdly and most pressingly, Ritchie was sick, or hurt, or possibly both, and somewhere people were cutting him open and they had no way of knowing whether or not he would come out of it okay- or at all.

"Paul? John? George?" said a woman's voice. Instinctively, they all looked up to see the tear-streaked face of Elsie Gleave-Starkey, her dress rumpled, standing in front of them looking confused.

"Miss Elsie!" they all shouted, standing up. Immediately, (and in retrospect thoughtlessly) they began to bombard her with questions, all the questions amounted to the same thing- whether or not Ritchie was okay.

"Boys," she said, trying to calm them down. She leaned down so she was at eye level with the trio of worried six-year-olds. "Ritchie has to get his appendix taken out," she explained. Her words, however, did nothing to clarify Ritchie's condition for the boys.

"What's an appendix?" asked Paul, hoping it wasn't something important.

"It's a little organ, right here," she said quietly, poking Paul gently in the side. "It doesn't do anything. But it got sick, so he had to come here and have it taken out." She sat down in George's recently vacated seat and sighed. She had obviously been there a while. The little makeup she had worn was smudged around her eyes, and it didn't appear that she had brushed her hair in a very long time. Her face was the unmistakable one of a worried mother, fearing for the safety of her only child, practically her only family. Anybody who knew the mother-son duo knew that practically all they had was each other's love, and this was exemplified in Elsie's state of mind.

"Well, will he be alright?" said John, pressing the issue probably more than necessary.

"He comes out in a few hours," she explained. "We'll know then. But probably he will be." She sounded more like she was trying to assure herself than like she was trying to assure the three in front of her. "It's not a dangerous kind of surgery." Elsie sighed and ran a hand through her light brown hair and looked at the three worried boys in front of her. "How did you get here? Paul, George, where are your parents?"

"We took the bus here," said George. "Our parents are at home." Elsie's eyes widened.

"You're here by yourself?!" she practically screeched, her mood suddenly changed. "Did you at least tell them you were going?" Knowing they were in trouble, the boys looked ashamedly at the floor, feigning a sudden interest in the stained tiling. The room was almost silent, like the entire world was waiting for their response.

"Uh… no…" muttered Paul.

"How could you even think of doing such a thing!" she admonished, standing up. Paul fiddled with the buttons on his jacket, George scuffed the floor with his shoe, and John pretended to clean his glasses lenses on his shirt hem and alternately picking at a bandage on his wrist still left from his own stay in the hospital. Elsie continued. "You just got up, left your houses and came here without telling anybody? That's the dumbest, most half-assed plan I've ever heard of!" The boys shrunk beside her and retreated farther into themselves. Elsie suddenly stopped her rant and shook her head. George, John, and Paul noticed her silence and looked at her, tears showing in their eyes.

Elsie quietly gathered all the boys into a big hug. "I'm sorry for yelling at you, but it still wasn't a good idea to do this. Your parents are probably very worried about you. It's a hard time when someone you love gets hurt, I know, but you guys can be strong, right?" she looked at the boys, who all nodded slowly. Nobody said anything. Elsie smiled softly.

"Miss Starkey?" said a deep voice from beside them. She broke away from the boys and they all looked at the owner of the voice- a tall, dark haired doctor in a slightly off-white coat. He was holding a clipboard and looking at them with an even smile on his face that gave away nothing. "I have news about your son."


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N Yep, here's chapter 14! Sorry it's so short, but hopefully it will cure the curiosity I'm sure you're positively ****_dying _****of! Please review, I'll love you forever 3**

**-Claire**

September 30, 1948

"On Ritchie?" asked Elsie, breaking away from the group hug and looking hopefully at the doctor, her eyes glistening. "How's my boy? Is he all right?" she held her hands in front of her, as if in prayer, and looked imploringly at the doctor, the boys behind her all but forgotten.

"I'm Dr. Owens," introduced the man, shaking hands with Elsie and giving all the boys warm looks that, somehow, reassured them more than words could. "I performed Ritchie's appendectomy. He's in the recovery room right now, but he's asleep. You can see him in a few hours. We'd like to keep him here for a week or so, just to observe, make sure complications don't develop." His eyes smiled along with his mouth as he explained, standing as he was with his hands in his pockets in a very doctor-esque fashion.

"Complications?" squeaked Elsie, her face, which had been flooded relief upon the first part of Dr. Owens' speech, now showing signs of her old worry returning. Her hands were still clasped in front of her.

"Extremely unlikely," Dr. Owens said hastily, like he was trying to avoid Elsie's apparently impending freak-out. "But you can never be too careful, can you? We here at Newton Memorial don't like to take any chances." He averted his gaze from Elsie and focused instead on the three boys standing behind her, their expressions an even mixture of fear and relief. "Who might you lads be? Relatives?" He kneeled down next to them and looked at them over the rim of his half-moon glasses.

Paul was the first one to speak up. "No, sir," he said. "We're Ritchie's bestest friends ever." He grinned, proud of his title.

"Well, your friend is going to be fine, right?" asked the doctor.

"_You're_ the one who should know that," said John, crossing his arms and cocking an eyebrow.

Dr. Owens looked at the little boy and blinked, like he wasn't entirely sure if he'd heard correctly. Most grownups, especially of the time, weren't used to a child that would speak up like that. "Yes…" he stuttered. "Well, your friend will be fine." He said it with more of a sense of finality this

"Guaranteed?" this question came from George. Paul and John looked at their youngest friend in surprise at the fact he had actually had the guts to speak up near a stranger. Apparently, it was a day of firsts for George Harrison.

"Guaranteed," said the doctor with a sense of finality about his tone. "You boys should get some sleep. If I'm not mistaken, tomorrow's Wednesday, and you'll have a nice, long day of learning to attend to in a few hours. In fact, you can take Ritchie's homework and bring it here until he's better." He turned toward Elsie again. "Good day, Miss Starkey," he bid, bowing slightly before heading back down the endless hospital hallway.

Silence permeated the waiting room for a second, a pleasant lull in conversation where, for the first time since George had come to the McCartney house bearing the news of Ritchie's hospitalization, everyone could calm down, stop worrying, and finally be content in knowing that the balance of the world had been restored. If Ritchie was okay, they could relax.

"Well," said Elsie finally, turning toward the boys. She no longer looked frazzled and harried, but calm and more cheerful, although tired. Dark bags showed themselves under her eyes, no doubt a byproduct of the past four hours of endless worrying. "I'll take you home. It's late. But first, I'll call Mary and Louise." Without waiting up on a response from the very children she was speaking to, she excused herself to the phone, located somewhere across the waiting room, and proceeded to make the calls, trying her best to explain what had happened and convince them not to go too hard on their children.

Meanwhile, the three boys in question simply milled around or sat about, none of them interested in conversation. Like it had on Louise, the stresses of the day were taking their toll on them. George, for his part, had actually fallen asleep right on the floor of the hospital, curled up in a ball under a chair, oblivious to the world. Paul picked halfheartedly at a button on his jacket until it simply came off into his hand, a little plastic circle with a few pathetic pieces of gray string that had previously held it onto the lapel. He sighed and shoved it into his pocket before starting on a new button.

For Paul, all that was bad was over, the worry of the past few hours replaced by tiredness. At the present moment, all he wanted was to get home, providing he wouldn't get in trouble for running off. Although, he did suspect he would get into more trouble for leaving the door open behind him and letting in the cold air. Allowing the heat to escape in the McCartney home was an offence practically punishable by death- money, as it had always been, was a problem for the family, and letting out all the precious and expensive warmth was akin to throwing handfuls of quid down the garbage disposal. It was in this way that his anxiety for Ritchie's life was effectively replaced with anxiety for his own self-preservation, selfish as it may seem.

John paced in such a tight circle that he was starting to get dizzy- dizziness had recently been a problem for him, something the doctors had told him he would have to deal with when he had been released from the very same hospital he found himself in now. Eventually he stopped his movement and sat down in a chair with his head between his knees, and as he waited for the planet to cease spinning, he briefly considered visiting his mother, or possibly his sister, but decided against it. Although he knew both members of his immediate family were somewhere in the hospital, he had no idea in which rooms. Besides, his mother was still being distant with him. He did miss his sister though- Julie, his only sibling, who he loved with all his little heart, surprising even himself. Faintly, he could recall the disappointment he had felt at her birth regarding her gender all those months ago, but he had truly over the past almost year of her life turned very protective of his little sister.

"Boys?" Elsie's voice penetrated John and Paul's respective thoughts- not so much George's, as that particular child was still sleeping on the floor, curled into a ball, and the only thoughts he was having were dreams. And, as anybody who knew George could tell you, he was a notoriously deep sleeper, and there was absolutely no chance of waking him up without turning the hose on him. "Boys, we should… oh, George," sighed Elsie upon seeing the sleeping child. "On the floor?" Obviously, she was referring to his odd choice of a place to nap. With a small smile, she gathered George in her arms, adjusting him so he was facing toward her. The small boy didn't even notice himself being lifted.

Elsie led them out of the hospital, still carrying George, and they got on the next bus, which luckily pulled up just as they walked out the double doors. It was much quieter on the bus than it was during mornings, considering it was so very late- almost nine at night. Whatever people were on the bus appeared to be much too tired to attempt to talk with whoever they were next to. Not even Paul, normally very verbose when around his friends, was engaging in conversation. He nodded off a couple of times against John's shoulder, but only for a few minutes per time. They got off before George- Elsie had already voiced her intents to return to the hospital once she had seen the boys home. By the time John and Paul had gotten off the bus and were walking back to the McCartney house by the feeble light of the streetlamps, Paul was practically sleeping standing up. He was walking with his eyes more closed than open, like a zombie, and kept tripping over the littlest cracks in the sidewalk, rather comically.

Once the two boys reached the house, John felt around in the dark until his hand reached the doorbell, which he rang twice. There was silence for a moment, but then a slight commotion was heard and the door opened wide to reveal the face of one Mary McCartney.

Mary's face had always been hard to read, no matter what she was feeling, and that night was no different: she stood straight, her lips pursed, arms crossed against her chest, and her eyebrows turned inwards. All of these, both boys knew, were signs of impending fury. But, Mary wasn't the kind of woman to get angry, and even though her whole body spelled complete rage her eyes were soft and understanding.

"Come on in, then," she said, stepping inside to let the boys in. "It's been a long day." The two boys nodded at her, slowly, still not entirely sure if she'd keep her temper. "We'll discuss it tomorrow. For now, sleep. Long day tomorrow, after all."

Paul shuffled inside and up the stairs toward his room, his feet making heavy plodding sounds on the wood of the staircase as he went. In the living room, John could see the unmistakable shape of Jim McCartney, who did not look at all happy. John began to pass by Mary and follow his friend up to bed, but before he did, he turned around and faced Mary. The woman, wearing her floral nightgown, shut the door and turned to him.

"Yes, John?" she asked, her arms no longer folded but at her sides.

"Thank you, Miss Mary," said John. And, for one of the first times of his life, the thank you was genuine. Before she could respond, he turned around and went back up the stairs, eager to go finally to bed after a long, long day.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: Heyyo, party people! Sorry it took so long to update, this chapter was hard to crank out... By the way, I've changed the boys' ages so they're all in the same year at school, which I know is incorrect but hey, artistic license right? Just thought you should know. Anyway, I'm sure you all know the drill by now, I'd love to hear your opinions!**

**-Claire**

October 1, 1948

"Oliver's a git, you know," Paul said comfortingly to George, who sat next to him, sullenly picking meatloaf crumbs from his jacket. The two boys and John were, yet again, on a bus to the hospital to see Ritchie, although this time they were riding it intended way instead of on the roof like the last time. Previously to their actually getting on the bus, John and Paul had temporarily lost sight of George at school, and after several minutes of searching the grounds had found him in the cafeteria, trying to claw his way out of the trash can. They had quickly helped him out and hastily boarded the bus, where they had spent the entire ride trying to cheer up their dejected friend and help him get the discarded lunch out of his thick hair and coat jacket.

"A big, fat arse," supplied John, arms crossed in anger. Boy, the next time he saw Oliver Danes there would be hell for that boy to pay. He and Paul had only left George alone for a second before Oliver and his thug friends had accosted him. "Next time I see him, I'm gonna…" instead of finishing the sentence, he mimed a swinging punch for effect with his small fist that was so forceful he nearly swung himself off the bus seat.

"Right," said Paul, bouncing off John's ideas, brushing a noodle from George's unruly dark hair. "Me too! We'll whoop him so hard he won't know what hit him! Right, Johnny?" John nodded in affirmation, proud of his normally pacifistic friend for finally manning up.

"Bugger off," sighed George, slapping away Paul's hands, crossing his arms, and scowling at nothing in particular. Apparently he had given up on trying to de-lunch himself. "I don't need you whooping Oliver Danes for me, I can take care of myself."

"Then we can whoop him _with_ you," explained Paul, putting the emphasis on 'with'. "We can all get together like him and his friends do and whoop him so hard he falls into next Tuesday! We'll… we'll grab him and throw him in the trash can! We'll punch him so hard he goes to sleep!"

"We can hang him by his underwear on the door of the girls' locker room," added John. Briefly, he considered suggesting some of Bobby's favorite punishments, but not even Oliver Danes deserved that… he thought. Perhaps if he tried to bully George again, he would utilize them.

"Maybe," said George uncomfortably. "What if we get caught?"

He had a point, in Paul's opinion. John, however, simply waved off his concerns. Unlike the other two, he didn't find any value in keeping his nose clean and making good grades. He would much rather be reading, or kicking around a soccer ball, or listening to the radio. Paul and George, however, were much more dedicated to their studies. Lucky for John, Ritchie didn't have any interest in school either, so he had an ally in his indifference.

Finally, the bus pulled up in front of the hospital and the three young boys quickly clambered out, eagerly bursting through the front doors, getting Ritchie's number from the receptionist- thankfully a different one than the day before- and navigating the long hallways until they got to his room, giddy to be seeing their friend and simultaneously desperately hoping he was in good health like the doctor from the day before had said.

When they got in, Ritchie was sitting up in his bed, although from his slouching frame it was clear he still wasn't 100%. The whitish gray sheets were pulled up to his waist and he was doodling idly on a small notepad with a pencil, looking bored. Elsie wasn't there, which the boys found strange- perhaps she had run home to get clothes or food. Not everything, after all, was readily available in the dank and sparse hospital. Once Ritchie noticed his friends there, he beamed and waved them over.

"Georgie! Paulie! Johnny! Hi!" he looked like he was practically ready to begin jumping in excitement. The three boys crowded around his bed, grinning, George and Paul on one side and John on the other. While Ritchie certainly didn't look very well, he didn't look deathly ill either. He had the look about him like he wasn't fine now, but very soon he would be. "I drew a picture of all of us, see?" Ritchie said, holding up his drawing. It was evidently drawn on the back of a math worksheet, and the pencil markings clearly showed the four boys as stick figures standing in front of a house. It was easy to tell who was who- Ritchie was the shortest, John had a large pair of glasses, Paul had the neatest hair, and George the messiest.

"Cool," said George, out of lack of a better response.

"Hey," Paul interjected suddenly. "What happened to you?" he still wasn't entirely sure what had landed Ritchie in the hospital in the first place.

"I got… um… I think it's called appin… appindickatis? Something like that. But they had to cut me open and take something out. Apparently I don't need it though, so it's fine I guess," he shrugged, like he was completely indifferent to being relieved of one of his organs and not even knowing which one.

"Where'd they cut you open?" asked Paul eagerly. He had recently acquired ambitions to become a doctor, and any chance he got to have his mother or anyone else explain medical terms to him he gladly took. George, however, grimaced at the thought of someone being cut into, but remained silent. John noticed George's discomfort and made a funny face, eyes crossed and tongue sticking out, that enticed a grin from the smaller boy's face.

"Right here," said Ritchie in response to Paul's zealous inquiry. He pulled back the covers and lifted his shirt, showing the side of his stomach, a large section of which was covered by a white piece of gauze that was taped to his skin on either side. "The doctors say I'm not allowed to take it off for a while." He cocked his head and scratched above his ear. "But it sort of itches."

"Well, when are you getting back to school?" asked John. He personally was eager to re-establish their group of four, and it seemed like the universe was conspiring against them to destroy it.

"We're starting to have those problems with Liam Fleischman again," added George. It was true- the boy had tried to take Ritchie's seat during lunch, and it was only through bribery with two pence that they were able to get him to leave happily. It wasn't that Liam was mean- just annoying and smelly.

"And Oliver Danes-" began Paul, only to be cut off by an uncharacteristic withering glare from George. "Sorry…" he mumbled, embarrassed at bringing up such a touchy subject, shifting his weight and looking away. The topic of Oliver Danes and his reign of tyranny wasn't one George was a fan of talking about.

Ritchie didn't notice the slight awkwardness. "The doctors say I'll have a big scar! Like a battle wound! It can match yours, John!" Ritchie looked very excited at the prospect, and John sobered up considerably.

"Yeah…" he mumbled.

"At least," said Ritchie, suddenly doubtful. "I think it's the same place. But I know you have a lot of scars! Can I see?" He appeared to be hell-bent on not letting the subject matter go. He was an extremely innocent soul, and didn't really understand how John could be anything but excited at having a matching scar. Reluctantly, John picked up the hem of his shirt and pulled it up to let Ritchie see the myriad of rough, whitish red lines that crisscrossed his chest and stomach. There were several more on his back, but from the angle nobody could see them. "Right there!" said Ritchie, poking John a little too hard in the right side. "That one's exactly like mine will be!" he looked satisfied at his confirmation, so John put his shirt down quickly. The particular scar Ritchie had been referring too was one deeper than some of the others that he had gotten through a combination of Bobby's drunkenness and his indiscretions regarding how late he had come home one night from Paul's house. It was about a year ago, but John could still remember the incident well.

"Johnny? John? John!" said a voice that pulled John out of his thoughts. The owner of the voice turned out to be Paul, and when he focused his gaze on his friends he saw that they all had the same look- one of skepticism and confusion permeated with slight worry. Apparently, he had let his thoughts run away with him. "You alright?"

John nodded, more trying to convince himself than the others, shaking his head as if the motion would jar the memories from his brain. It most certainly did not. George and Ritchie broke away their gazes to engage in an animated discussion about elephants, but Paul still stood across the bed, arms crossed, still looking at John. Paul had the amazing ability to communicate with people, John especially but the rest of the group also, through his eyes alone. The current look he was treating his best friend to clearly stated that he most certainly did not believe he was alright- of course he didn't. He slept next to John at night, he had seen the occasional time he would wake up in the throes of a nightmare and had to be calmed down. For John, having the dreams, the contents of which he would always choose to ignore come morning time, but Paul made it a goal not to hold the moments of weakness against him.

The four boys' respective activities were interrupted by a sharp cry coming from Ritchie. The littlest (yet oldest) boy, just recently talking happily, had now doubled practically in half and was holding his stomach, his face scrunched up. He moaned yet again, and his friends regarded him, frightened, not knowing what was going on.

"Ritchie?..." said George nervously, his voice small. He backed up from his friend and, inadvertently, straight into John, who barely noticed. All of them were much too focused on a more important matter.

"What's wrong, Ritchie?" asked Paul, even more hesitantly than George. He wrung his hands as he asked the question- a nervous habit of his. "Should we get a doctor?" he looked extremely worried.

"No, I-" Ritchie's protests were interrupted by a second, louder, and more pained noise that escaped his lips. Suddenly, he burst into tears and folded in half, loud sobs escaping his lips. Needless to say, Paul was set into a panic, George suddenly jumped and got very quiet, and all John could do was stand in shock, not able to move or say anything.

As Ritchie continued his frightening wails, Paul burst out the door, screaming as loud as possible a bunch of nonsense, the only word from which could be distinguished was 'doctor'. George did his part as the comforter and patted Ritchie's back.

"It's alright, Ritchie!" he said, loudly so he could be heard above Ritchie's crying and Paul's frantic screaming. "It'll be alright, everything will be fine, _please_ stop screaming!" he was doing his best, pleading in vain, but it wasn't enough to stop whatever was wrong with his friend. It wasn't the kind of thing words could fix. Wide-eyed, his already frazzled hair a complete mess and lacking ideas, he looked at John with his wise little-boy face contorted into a worried grimace and practically screeched, "John, _do _something!"

John could only stand rooted to the ground, like nails were holding his shoes to the tile. Even if he wanted to move, he couldn't.

Three doctors in white coats burst into the room without any warning, pushing past the doors as if they were made from tissue paper. They zoned in on Ritchie, shoving away John and George and crowding around his bed, shouting orders and medical terms. One doctor lifted Ritchie straight from the bed and ran with him out the door and back down the hall, leaving nothing but suffocating silence in their wake. The entire process couldn't have taken more than ten seconds.

George and John looked at each other blankly, their eyes portraying the slew of emotions inside them: from confusion to fear to everything in between. Both boys, usually so adept at hiding their feelings, no longer cared about putting up a front- they were only with each other, and it wasn't the time. The plain walls of the room seemed to box them in, like even though they were inanimate they were trying to suffocate the boys. Paul was absolutely nowhere to be seen, and without Ritchie there laughing and smiling the sun might as well have been extinguished.

Small footsteps were heard, and a tear-streaked Paul walked in and stood awkwardly at the entrance, looking dejected and crumpled, his shoulders slumped. He shuffled over to George and John and sat on the edge of Ritchie's recently vacated bed, his small back hunched. His feet didn't touch the floor, and he stared at his shoes as they dangled limply in the space between the bed and the floor. John and George remained on their respective opposite sides of the bed. Nobody said anything for a while.

"They took him to the ICU," said Paul. Initially, he wasn't met with a response, but eventually George spoke up.

"What's an ICU?" he asked halfheartedly.

"An emergency place. They said something is really, really wrong with Ritchie."

"Will he be okay?" inquired George, trying not to let his worry show.

Paul shrugged, signifying that he truly didn't know. George clamped his mouth shut. "I asked the doctors," he said. "They said he has complications and he's really sick."

"We should go home," George said. Paul nodded and stood, new tears starting afresh.

"Yeah," he said quietly. The two boys started toward the door when they noticed that John wasn't following them.

"John?" George sighed, turning around so he was facing John in the doorway. "We should go."

All he got for a response was John, who looked at him, scarily emotionless.

And then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to do, John Lennon began laughing.

He laughed hysterically, doubling over, practically wheezing, and simply letting his emotions run away with him. After all, the only other option was to start crying, so he laughed instead, even though all the humor in the world had escaped him, leaving only the grief and completely unspeakable tragedy that seemed to lately be the norm. All he had ever read, all anybody had ever told him, was false: there was no built in silver lining that comes with every tragedy. It appeared that he would have to make it himself.

"Why are you laughing?" Paul asked angrily. "This isn't funny!"

John's laughing fit subsided and his face fell. The compensatory hysterics were gone, leaving only the heavy weight of his worry on his chest. "I know," he sighed. "But I wish it was."


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N Soooo sorry I haven't updated in forever! This chapter was very hard to crank out, it's difficult for me to write about death and loss and such, I get too emotional :( Especially about the loss of a friend, as four years ago one of my best friends committed suicide. But you certainly don't want to hear me rambling... I'll leave you to the story, I really hope you like it, and remember, reviews are very good for one's self-esteem.**

October 1, 1948

"Mrs. Starkey," greeted the doctor with a slow nod of his head and a short bow. "And Mrs. Starkey's company," he added upon seeing the other people that crowded her. He addressed the small crowd in a semi-hidden corner of the waiting room, where they were hidden from public ogling. People of all walks of life passed them, but for all the attention they were paid they might as well be ghosts.

After George, John and Paul had recovered from the shock of Ritchie's episode and gathered their senses, Paul was quick to give Ritchie's, George's, and his own parents a ring, all of whom had promised to come to the hospital straightaway. Perhaps the panic in the small boy's voice had been evident over the tinny phone, because the adults had kept true to their word and were now all in the waiting room, twiddling their thumbs and waiting impatiently for news. Elsie had even called her ex-husband, Ritchie's father, who even though he lived several counties over and hadn't seen his son in almost a year came as quickly as he could as soon as he heard what had happened. George sat on his mother's lap (his father was on a bus route and was unable to come), Paul on his mother's. Jim sat next to Mary, his eyebrows knitted together in thought. Elsie sobbed, hysterically and hung onto her ex-husband, tears leaking from her eyes. Even though they were no longer married to one another, both anxious parents were on good terms, and mutually comforted one another, in their own bubble of worried misery separate from the rest of the world. Louise, ever the devout Catholic, prayed for the life of the little boy somewhere else in the hospital. Paul clutched his mother's dress and tried to hide his tears. George sat quietly, shirking off all his mother's doting affections, preferring as always to work through his problems alone- emotionally unhealthy, he knew, but he couldn't stand to be pitied by his cooing mother. John sat alone, hugging his knees and staring at nothing. Nobody approached him, and he was quite content with that actuality. The only person he really craved was his mother- for in his opinion, her doting touch could repair anything, but she wasn't available. He had even tried to get to her, but her doctors had brushed him off carelessly with the baffling and somewhat disturbing excuse that she wasn't interested in his company. Mary wished sorely and silently that her husband was beside her, but alas someone had to be home for Mike, who was only five years old and certainly not old enough for either the horrors of the hospital or staying home alone. George's father Harold was also not present, as he had a bus route that he had been on since before Paul was called. In fact, he didn't even know of what had happened. However, the well-meaning man was notoriously bad with emotions, and would probably be unable to offer any constructive support no matter how much he tried to.

When nobody replied to him with their own greetings, the doctor continued. "I'm afraid that your son has developed some serious and rather unexpected complications from his surgery." The doctor's words hit the group like a ton of bricks, not helped at all by the seemingly callous way he delivered the news.

"How serious?" asked Jim, the most levelheaded at the moment, speaking up in the silence. Elsie was crying too much to speak, hysterical as she was. Not even Richard Starkey Sr.'s soothing words whispered in her ear consoled her.

"Very," the doctor said solemnly, looking at his shoes awkwardly, holding his clipboard limply at his side. "We aren't entirely sure what to call it at the moment, as his state is too fragile to properly diagnose him. However, I can personally assure you that we are doing absolutely everything we can to help Richard-"

"Ritchie," said George suddenly, surprising the others with his outspokenness. "His name is Ritchie."

The doctor nodded in understanding. "Ritchie," he corrected. However," he continued, his voice dropping even lower and graver, if such a thing was possible. "It is not expected that he will make it through the night." The words were fateful, flat, with such a sense of finality about them to suggest that his being wrong was wholly impossible. After delivering the news, the doctor simply stood in place, as if he didn't know what to do except to silently watch everyone around him disintegrate.

Elsie completely collapsed then, like a bowl of sobbing pudding, into Richard Starkey Sr.'s arms. He stumbled back slightly at the sudden addition of her weight, but remained strong, at least physically. Whispering soothing words frantically in her ear and holding back his own tears, he led his ex-wife away from the rest of the group to console her.

George let his head go limp, and he closed his eyes as tightly as possible and looked at the ground. He wished his hair was longer- that way, it could hide him from the rest of the world. He didn't move or even make a sound. The world, he mused as he silently let saltwater rivers run from his eyes, was a cruel place. A cruel, cruel place that could take the sweetest person on earth away without as much as a warning. He angrily wiped from his eyes the bitter tears with the sleeve of his jacket, still stained with the garbage from his earlier dip into the rubbish bin. He couldn't let others very well see him crying, could he? No, he was the strong one, thick-skinned like John, except unlike his self-destructive friend, he was the supportive one. Crying is for when one's alone. He bit back his tears and looked around him sadly, knowing all the reassurance in the world couldn't fix anything.

Paul wailed even louder than he had before, unashamedly sobbing in heaving cries into his mother's shirt, which he buried his face into as if the world depended on it. Paul was always one to wear his emotions on his sleeve, and it was certain that now was no different. Sadness hadn't yet really touched Paul, preserving him in a state of innocence. The other boys had all experienced some sort of loss at one or more points in their lives, but not so much for Paul. He had remained throughout his life forever untouchable from it, but that fact was now changed in one sudden twist of fate, and the shock was hitting him harder than it would have if he had gotten a chance to protect himself from it. Mary soothed him gently, knowing as George did that it wasn't the kind of thing words could fix but trying all the same, futilely trying to calm him down. The boy clung to his mother's dress collar, burying his head into her shoulder and letting the fabric muffle his sobs.

John simply stood in place, like his shoes were nailed to the floor. They might as well be for all he cared. What could he do besides nothing, though? He could cry like Paul. He could hang his head in sorrow like George. But he wasn't either of them. Tears weren't something he could let the others see. The last thing he could clearly remember his father telling him was _'Don't cry, Johnny, don't be weak.' _And he was adamant about taking the order to heart, even though it had been two years since he had seen his father. The pain in his heart wouldn't burst forth, and instead it just weighed him down like an internal anchor, dragging him down into the pits of depression. The so-called pits of depression certainly weren't a foreign place for John- his mother had, after John's father Alfred Lennon left, become victim to its unrelenting grasp, and there were several family members of his who had turned to alcohol, fallen away from reality, and taken their own lives in the end. John himself was even in an albeit very well hidden state of extreme self-loathing, only worsened by the still very recent events with Bobby and what he had done to remedy it, and the rampant misfortunes that had shown themselves to his life. Perhaps it was for this reason that he didn't cry- all the sadness he was capable of showing had already been shown in one way or another.

Hours passed. Paul calmed down somewhat, after spending a very long time in the throes of a fit, and was now cried out and simply sat woodenly. Even though Paul could no longer cry on the outside, he was still sobbing inconsolably on the inside, his normally mild emotions churning. George had fallen into a state of subdued brooding that was oh so very typical of him, only speaking when he had to and even then in short, curt sentences that made it abundantly clear that Ritchie's condition was still very much bothering him and he didn't want to have to interact with anybody. John hadn't moved from his spot at all, and quite frankly nobody noticed, caught up as they were in their own grieving. The adults had all agreed once the shock of the whole thing had worn off that it would be best for the shocked youngsters to stay together for the night at least, and be exempt from the next school day, and they were eventually shepherded to Mary and Jim's house- of course, John and Paul would've been going there either way, but the presence of George had a calming effect on them of sorts, and besides, even though the youngest of them wouldn't care to admit it, he wasn't looking forward to going home and being alone as he inevitably would be had he returned to his own abode.

It was quietly and without incident that they were fed an unusually late dinner. It was pasta, tubes of pasty wheat smothered in synthetic sauce that were as tasteless as any other food made from the god-awful war rations, but like rubber cement to the boys. Jim and Mary ate silently, lips pursed, occasionally sharing glances with one another like they were talking without words. Even Mike, who was blissfully uninformed on the sobering events that had recently taken place, picked up on the heavy tension in the air and didn't try to engage any of his tablemates in discussion like he normally would. George, John, and Paul picked at their food sullenly. Not even the infamously ravenous George ate a bite, instead just mashing his food with the prongs of his fork in a tiredly unamused fashion. Eventually, they were dismissed by Mary with a sigh to bed, and they slowly filed up the stairs to Paul's room without even clearing their plates from the table.

They found themselves soon after sitting cross-legged on Paul's bed, tight-lipped and heavy-hearted, the day's events catching up to them like they were invariably bound to eventually. The lights were off, but they could still see one another quite clearly by the unusually bright moonlight coupled with the soft illumination coming from Paul's slightly ajar door.

"I don't want Ritchie to die," said Paul meekly, after several minutes of complete silence. It was the obvious statement of the year, and George was quick to hop down his friend's throat for saying it.

"None of us want him to die, idiot," the littlest boy replied through gritted teeth, his eyes burning holes into one of his best friends, like his corneas were as sharp and lethal as daggers. George wasn't exactly the most mild-mannered of people, in fact he was very shy around those he didn't know and even among his friends was more of a listener than a talker like the others. It was a crucial role to the group dynamic, and one he didn't always get credited for. But he had been known for his occasional outbursts and sharp wit to rival John's when provoked enough. Nothing, however, quite measured up to the anger he displayed towards Paul.

"I didn't say that!" the other boy cried defensively, surprised at George's anger, tears beginning to spring to his eyes again. None of the boys noticed this however.

"None of us did," snapped George, looking away pointedly. It was a response in the same vein as his last, and Paul rolled his eyes derisively, pretending to be annoyed at his younger friend for being babyish (despite the fact he was only three months older than him) when all he really wanted to do was hug him and begin crying again. His pride, however, wouldn't allow it.

"Will you two just stop it?" sneered John, regarding his friends distastefully and beady-eyed, annoyed at their petty arguing in the face of a crisis. "You're both gits! I'm a git! The whole bloody world is a bunch of gits! Except for Ritchie," he suddenly softened at the last statement and looked ashamedly at the geometric pattern on Paul's quilted bedspread. "Everyone is mean and nasty except for Ritchie. I'd rather it be me than him." his voice was nearly inaudible at the end. His words rang with a sense of seriousness that simply wasn't present when he was being insincere- which was often, but not now.

Everyone was silent for a moment, digesting the information John had delivered. "I wouldn't rather it be you, Johnny," whispered Paul, wide-eyed.

"What the hell does that mean?" John was quick to snap. "Ritchie's a better person than I am. I deserve more to be about to die than him! He's nice and sweet and caring and always shares his toys at recess! I'm a bad person, and nobody really likes me anyways." The confession taxed him, and he sunk back into the thick fluffiness of Paul's thick quilt, pointedly avoiding the other's shocked gazes.

"I like you," said George simply. It was the first thing that George had said to him when they met, John realized- a reaffirmation that someone in the world still liked him. Back then, of course, John was only in a self-pitying state, but now he knew for a fact he wasn't really loved. He hated to make the moment they were supposed to be thinking about Ritchie about him, but he couldn't help it. His own parents, his stepfather, his grandparents, aunts and uncles, teachers, classmates- none of them liked him. Nobody, except Paul, George, and Ritchie, cared anything for him. On the other hand, Ritchie had his mother, his chronically absent father who had returned when he heard of his son's condition, pretty much everyone he knew, in the palm of his hand. Ritchie was integral to their lives. John wasn't. If he were to die, the world would continue turning, but for his friend the planet would simply stop its rotation- for a Ritchie-less world was no world at all.

"We all like you." Paul's contribution to the discussion was essentially the same as George's, but he felt it pertinent to repeat the phrase. If he had ever learned anything about John, it was that he was quick to become depressed and disenchanted with the idea of himself.

"Don't you like Ritchie too?" asked John, baffled.

"Yes…" said Paul quickly. "Of course. He's my best friend ever. All of you are. And, I mean, he really doesn't deserve this, but neither do you. Plus, you've had a lot of crappy things happen to you and you don't need more. If anything it should be me dying." This revelation was a startling for those involved, except for the one who had said it: Paul. Generally, he would never voice his emotions unless he had censored and sugarcoated them first, and such rawness was rare for him.

"No!" cried George. "None of us deserves this! We're all as good as can be, except for little things like food fights and not copying homework assignments from Paul. You two don't deserve to die, and neither do I or Ritchie! We don't deserve to lose one another! I don't even want to discuss this anymore!"

"But," said John slowly as Paul chewed on George's fighting words, "Ritchie deserves this the least of all of us." The other two nodded in agreement after a while. Ritchie was the heart of their group, in so very many ways. Somewhere deep inside, all three boys knew they couldn't go on hanging out together if Ritchie did end up dying. They were four parts of one organism, and no organism can live without its heart. They all decided against mentioning it, however. Reality is sometimes best left to the imagination.

It seemed unimaginable that they could sleep considering the circumstances, considering their conflicted emotions, but eventually slumber closed their weary, worried eyes, and set their minds to rest for the time being. They all fell asleep on Paul's bed in much the same positions as they had carried on their overly emotional discussion, on top of the comforter, piled on top of each other like a hastily gathered pile of linking logs, and their dreams were all the same.

Four boys, playing in a field.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: And here we are folks, Chapter 17, mint-in-box and ready to be read! I know I sound like a broken record, but please review? I'm serious when I say it helps me become a better writer, and there's always room for improvement! Also, Please be sure to read and review Renaissance, the much loved (at least by us) collaboration between myself and the impeccably creative Naturelover422! I'm sure you've all heard of her! I've just posted it, so it should be up soon, unless I royally screwed up like I normally do with technology. Sorry, I'm rambling. Enjoy!**

**-Claire**

October 2, 1948

Paul was the first to wake up of the three boys, opening his eyes blearily only to have them accosted by bright sunlight. He recoiled from the brightness, shielding his eyes with his spread fingers. He couldn't hear any sound except for the inordinately cheerful chirping of the ugly gray pigeons that sometimes flitted around outside his window, and as he wasn't covered up by the blankets, his extremities were cold. Despite the fact that he didn't know what time it was, he certainly knew it was very late in the morning from both the low position of the sun and the dry taste of stale sleep in his mouth that he only got when it had been a very long night. Although he knew that at least for him, George, and John there was no school that day, a part of him wished there was, if only so he could use grammar lessons and math problems to get his mind off of things.

Gently, so as not to awake his other two friends who had fallen asleep next to him, he rolled out from under the light weight of George's left leg on his back and clambered onto the hardwood floor and slowly stretched his muscles, achy from the awkward position he had slept in. Paul had been situated at the top of the bed, stretched across the pillows with his feet dangling off the edge as he slumbered. John, who always slept in a way that suggested he was protecting his vital organs, was curled up at the foot of the bed completely opposite from Paul, arms around his knees, facing inwards, his facial features twisted into a grimace that perhaps meant he was having a bad, or at least unpleasant, dream. George meanwhile, despite being small as he was, took up all the space in the middle, stretched out seemingly as far as possible, his head right next to John's, feet on the pillow where Paul had been only moments before, and both arms dangling off opposite sides of the bed. The youngest boy's mouth was ever so slightly open, and he sighed slightly and shifted in his sleep. A small facial expression somewhere between a smile and a frown- it's rather hard to tell which with George sometimes- played at the corner of his lips and he sighed contentedly.

Paul tiptoed down the stairs, across the foyer, and made his way into the kitchen, not finding any other people- which was to be expected- but simply a note lying on the kitchen table, which he picked up and read slowly, leaning against the wall tiredly as he did so.

_Paul-_

_Your father's at work in the cotton warehouse and I'm at the hospital. We'll both be home at around five o' clock. Mike is in school, so please pick him up at the bus stop and make sure he doesn't get lost. There's some toast and preserves in the refrigerator for you boys. I'll call you when I hear how Ritchie is. Be strong, Paul, I know you can._

_Love and kisses,_

_Mummy xxxx_

Nodding to himself, Paul folded the note carefully and placed it into the pocket of his trousers as neatly as possible. He scratched at his arm absentmindedly, completely disgusted at himself for the state of his normally impeccable hygiene. He was still wearing the same clothes as yesterday- all three boys had neglected to change before passing out on Paul's bed in the same rumpled school uniform as they had been wearing for twenty-four hours. Even George, whose clothes were saturated in garbage, hadn't changed, and Paul was sure the younger boy wanted a bath and a clean outfit as much as he did.

After pulling the promised toast and preserves from the bottom shelf of his refrigerator and setting them on the table, Paul wended his way back up the stairs and was quite surprised when he reached the top to see George and John standing aimlessly in his room, not doing anything in particular. He wandered into his room, not in any rush, and leaned against the doorframe and regarded his friends sadly. Seeing the people you love looking so lost was, at least for Paul, an unpleasantly sobering experience, and made his heart heavier than ever before.

"Hey, Paulie," George mumbled upon seeing his friend, rubbing his eyes with a small yawn. "Did you hear anything about Ritchie?" his voice was flat and quiet as usual, but with a hint of hopefulness tagged on at the end that was rarely expressed by the small boy. He tugged at his blazer slightly and slouched, his shoulders hunching inwards, at the same time not avoiding or searching Paul's gaze.

"No," was the reply, a short and forced syllable that worked its way from between Paul's lips and resonated in the room much more harshly than he intended. Paul was bitter- explicably so, but it only added to all the ways he hadn't been acting like himself since Ritchie had gone to the hospital.

"Course not," said voice, John's, angrily from the opposite end of the room. Paul looked up in surprise to see the oldest boy sulkily walking the distance from where he was standing over to his friends and shoving his hands into the pockets of his pants, a sour grimace on his face. "They never bother to tell us nothing." It was an oddball and cynical statement for an oddball and cynical person.

"Who's they?" asked Paul innocently, eyebrows perking up in confusion.

"Them," replied John flippantly with a sudden, bitter, and ever so slightly alarming laugh. "Everyone." Paul sighed, knowing that the cryptic answer was all he was going to get, and choosing from personal experience to ignore the infuriating nature of his friend's words. In the two years he had known him, he had learned that when John was upset, an actuality that presented itself extremely often, his emotions would turn into a tumultuous blend of outwardly expressed anger and derision despite what he was really feeling inside. Early on in their friendship, Paul would bite back whenever John got to acting the way he was now, but over the past year or so he had realized it was more beneficial to everyone involved to utilize his patience.

"Right," Paul muttered quietly, not pointing out that he still had no idea what John meant. He hoped he was believable as agreeing with John- however, he was no actor by any stretch. "Mum made toast and preserves for us," he said suddenly, diverting the attention to a much lighter subject. Over-animatedly, he gestured with a nod of his head towards the staircase before her began down them, the other two following closely behind him. As the three boys padded down the stairs in a much more subdued manner than was normal, George sprung yet another question on the newly awoken Paul.

"Is she here, your mum?" his voice betrayed no emotion other than simple but uncaring curiosity, which was blissfully normal for the boy. In truth, Paul had loathed hearing all the pain and sadness and anger in George's voice for the past few days, and hearing him sounding like he usually did was wonderful.

"No," Paul replied, leading the other two over to the table where the cold food awaited them. "She left it in the refrigerator. She says she'll call us about Ritchie when she hears anything's… happened." He chose his words carefully, not wanting to upset his friends. He looked up quickly at John to make sure he hadn't upset him, and sat down in his usual seat, taking a bite of the hard bread and swirling the delicious but sparsely spread apple preserves in his mouth. He hadn't eaten since school lunch the day before and was ravenous.

"The doctors are probably wrong," reassured George, taking a seat at the table and starting in uncharacteristically slowly on a piece of the blackened bread smeared in apple mash. Paul raised his eyebrows at his friend, both for his eating speed and his statement. "Peter was in the hospital once and they said he had pneumonia, but he really didn't. They just make big deals out of nothing." George explained as confidently as he could, with a feeling of relief when he saw Paul brighten at the words. Of course, George didn't believe a word of what he said, and the accompanying story was completely false, but the small and perceptive boy could see right through Paul's façade of acting all strong.

"Yeah," Paul said, like he was in the middle of an epiphany. "Yeah! Mum's always calling the doctors she works with idiots. I bet they're just exaggerating about Ritchie!" George nodded slowly, not feeling like speaking at the moment. He fine with the idea of stewing silently in his misery and letting Paul enjoy his newly restored optimism towards life.

John, however, had different ideas, and it appeared as if the oldest of all of them, who had remained strangely quiet all morning, was bent on putting in his two cents even if it ruined everyone else's day. . "What the bloody hell do you mean?" he said crossly, nearly yelling. "Everything's not okay! Nothing will ever be okay every again, so stop acting like it is!" his voice got louder and louder, and he hadn't even touched his food, which simply sat a square of blackness on a plate in front of him. He stood up from his place quickly; he pushed the chair back with his legs and began pacing around the room broodingly, sulky and infuriated as could be.

"Ritchie can still be okay!" Paul said defensively, trying more to convince himself than John. "I don't get why you have to bring everyone down with you whenever you get mad." He put down his toast and crossed his arms like the six-year-old he was, trying to look as dignified as one from his chair as one could when their feet don't even touch the ground. He pointedly avoided looking at John, and instead closed his eyes and turned up his nose to the sky.

"No, you're wrong!" John snapped. Paul rolled his eyes derisively. John certainly had the potential to be a complete and total asshole if he felt like it. The little boy didn't think so in such colorful words, however, merely in the opinion that the older boy's ridiculous antics were harshing his newfound calm. "Nothing good ever happens to me!" John continued. "Why does life have to suck all the time?"

"Maybe life wouldn't suck if you weren't such an idiot!" snapped Paul, standing up and regarding John harshly. It was a low blow, but Paul felt it necessary. From the sidelines, George watched the spectacle calmly, thoughtfully swallowing the last bite of his breakfast. If he had to, he decided, he would break up the argument. Otherwise, he was perfectly content _not_ getting torn to shreds by the infuriatingly petty insults his friends were only too keen to throw around, knowing all too well any interference on his part could turn their combined anger towards him.

John's eyes betrayed a fleeting dash of hurt at Paul's comment before it was covered up by prideful, mulish anger. "I'm an idiot?" he sneered. "Well, you're not perfect either, Paul! Just because your life is so happy doesn't mean everyone else's is!"

"There's good in every situation if you look hard enough!" was the retort. John stalked over to Paul, who backed away nervously into the coffee. The older boy, however, didn't lay a hand on him (no matter how angry he was, John had decided long ago that he wouldn't become the kind of person who rules with his fists- he knew all too well the pain it caused for others) and instead looked down at him from the bridge of his nose snidely, acidic eyes burning a hole into Paul.

"No there's not," John growled. "What's the good in this situation, huh?"

The question John presented was a challenging one. Truly, there was no good in the situation except the good that Paul had made up to compensate. Lacking a real response, Paul whined "It builds character!" It was a direct quote from Paul's father, who would always say the phrase during whatever rare times of trouble touched the McCartney family, and the advice was as pertinent now as ever in Paul's opinion. From the look on John's face, however, Paul could tell that his rationalizing wasn't working in the least bit. He broke away from John's gaze, seething, and turned to George instead, hoping for an ally in his plight. "Geooooooorge!" he whined, looking imploringly at the younger lad. "Tell him!"

Bewildered and suitably caught off guard at his forced membership to the conversation, George looked between his two friends. First off, there was Paul, who looked very much like he was ready to kill someone and burst into tears at the same time, and John beside and slightly behind, the hatred in his eyes pointed at everyone in the world at the same time, but most of all himself. _Which, _George mused silently, _is the lesser of two evils?_ The choices were John's wrath or the shattering, yet again, or Paul's fragile psyche, both of which were bound to have dire consequences.

"There's good and bad in every situation," George rationalized hesitantly, more than half expecting some sort of emotional explosion. Whatever happens will happen, and whatever goes around comes around." They were ideals that George had done his best to embody throughout his life, at least the past couple of years, and simultaneously seemed like a good compromise between Paul and John's polarized viewpoints. He could only hope his way of taking both sides would work out for the better.

"That's not an answer!" said Paul crossly, his high pitched voice grating on George's brain.

"Yeah, Harrison, what're you on about anyhow?" asked John rudely, seemingly even more annoyed than Paul was. George resisted the urge to shrink back into his chair, and not for the first time in his life wished himself invisible. He didn't want to be the target of John's confused and misfiring anger, and besides that he despised being the center of attention with a glowing passion.

"Don't be mean to George!" Paul cried, slugging John in the arm angrily. The oldest boy jumped back in a mixture of surprise and what could only be misdirected fear before returning the hit, harder. The action, even though it clashed with his morals, was justified in his opinion. Paul wheeled back to punch, which John agilely avoided. Paul was suddenly shoved back courtesy of John, and landed on the floor with a soft smack. The push wasn't inordinately hard, but it was still enough to catch him off guard. He reached out and grabbed John by the ankles and pulled, sending the other boy loudly onto to the floor beside him. John yelped in surprise and kicked Paul in the shin. It wasn't long until the two were rolling around on the kitchen floor smacking each other mercilessly, taking their anger at the world out on each other.

"Lads!" George cried out at seeing them hitting and kicking each other as they were. He got up from his seat, abandoning his food, and scurried over to the other side of the table, pointedly staying far enough away from the action so as not to inadvertently get pulled in. "Johnny! Paulie! Stop it, come on you guys, you're best friends!" The words were persuasive, but not persuasive enough, and just as George was about to go in there himself and pull the two away from each other, the phone rang, a one-toned pealing sound that sidetracked his train of thought.

Distracted, George ambled quickly over to the phone on the kitchen wall and removed it from the hanging cradle, pressing the earpiece to his left ear and plugging his right with his finger to keep the noise of John and Paul's fighting (which, in his opinion, sounded like a pair of cats roughing it out in an alleyway) out of his head.

"Hello?" He asked, hoping sorely for good news.

"Paul?" asked a voice from the other end.

"No, George," he replied. Quickly, he covered the mouthpiece and shouted out to John and Paul, "Hey, you pair of gits, I'm on the phone!" just as quickly as the fight had started, the two boys broke away and crowded around George as tightly as possible, trying to hear for themselves what was being said on the other line. Annoyed, George shoved away the other two with his elbows and restored the phone to its place on his ear and listened once more.

"…and they said-" said the voice.

"M' sorry," said George quickly. "What did you say?" Apparently the speaker, who he could only assume to be Paul's mother Mary, had continued talking while he was otherwise engaged. There was a soft sound of sighing on the other side of the phone before a reply came.

"George, sweetie, this is Mary McCartney. I'm at the hospital right now. There's some news on Ritchie." All three boys inhaled sharply, and exchanged wide-eyed glances, fearful of what they might hear. Mary's tone, soft and delicate as always, betrayed nothing about what she was about to say.

"What? What happened?" said George quietly, fear for her response gripping his heart. By the looks on John and Paul's faces, he could tell they felt the same.

"He's… George, I don't know how to tell you this…" Mary sounded uncertain, her syrup-smooth voice unnaturally hesitant, like she was trying to find a way to skirt around the news. "He's not dead, sweetie, but he's asleep."

George's heart soared and he smiled, even wider when John and Paul picked up on the cue and grinned themselves, grasping each other in a tight hug as they laughed and whooped. George himself stood up straighter, and couldn't seem to remove the smile from his face. He didn't understand why Mary would be so hesitant to tell him such great news: Ritchie would wake up eventually, wouldn't he? "So?" he asked.

"No, not like that," explained Mary. The smile melted from George's face, and he suddenly felt ten pounds heavier. Beside him, Paul and John stopped their hugging and looked at their youngest friend worriedly, sharing appropriately serious and fearful glances between them, their joy eradicated just as quickly as George's had. "He's going to be asleep for a long, long time." There was something in the way Mary said the words that suddenly made George, even though he was only six years old, grasp the meaning of her words.

"How long?" asked George, his voice barely a whisper.

"George," said Mary, her voice breaking slightly at the end of the word. "Ritchie's in a coma."


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: Chapter 18, everyone! I know you've all bean absolutely ****_dying _****of anticipation... a bit of a filler, I'm afraid, but lots of juicy action to come! And remember, evey time you review an angel gets its wings... and last but not least, Happy Birthday George Harrison! Seventy years gone by since you came into this world, and we miss you more each day!**

**Enjoy,**

**-Claire**

October 2, 1948

The three boys stood far away from the hospital bed in the center of the bare room, as if the small and fragile figure lying in it would jump out and attack them like a horror movie marionette- when in all reality it was the last thing that the comatose body of Ritchie Starkey could do.

It was scary, really, for the three friends to see their Ritchie, normally such a usually gregarious, cheerful, happy-go-lucky young boy, looking so small and weak tucked into the coarse blankets of the bed, his skin white and ashy, tubes running up and down his arms and into various IVs, eyes shut with an oversized mask over his face. If not for the slow beeping coming from a monitor he had been hooked up to and the slow rise and fall of his young chest cavity, the little boy could very well be mistaken for dead. Mary McCartney and Louise Harrison stood near the back wall, the former baring a tight-lipped grimace and the latter dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. Confused as a trio of six-year-olds could be in such trying circumstance, John, Paul, and George stood in a row in front of the two women, a small space remaining next to George where Ritchie should've been standing- that is, if the world wasn't as intent on screwing them all over as it seemed to be by putting the missing link in their quartet in a coma.

Elsie Starkey diligently sat her own post, unafraid of the fragile boy in contrast to the young friends, planted firmly in one of the hard wooden chairs the hospital was equipped with, holding her son's right hand tightly, softly and rhythmically running the pad of her thumb over the back of his palm. It was such a lovely, sad gesture, borne of pining grief for something uncertain, but certain all the same. There was a chance the small boy would wake up- a chance, no matter how small, of some sort of medical miracle taking place that would retrieve the once vivacious boy from the confines of his mind. It was this chance and nothing more that was keeping the three boys from losing it completely. What they hadn't lost completely already, that is. Already they had cried themselves out concerning what they thought would happen, and now that uncertainty loomed on the horizon all anybody could do was count their breath and hope.

John couldn't decide what was worse- having an eternally unfulfilled glimmer of hope, or just having all of one's dreams crushed in one fell swoop? Hope was in vain anyways, just a mindless wish for something that could never be. The little boy had dreamed once, but the time for that had gone. Reality was very much imposing in that respect, and while some could dream of magical futures and wonderful times, the only future John could see for himself was the kind he saw all around him, every day- betrayal, sadness, heartbreak, hatred. All of which were emotions he loathed to feel, and yet he knew that it was only this that his future would hold. Forever and always. Nothing is permanent, but some things still yet last forever.

Hope had let him down many a time. John could remember all the fruitless nights, waiting in the cabinet under the sink in his house for his father to return home, for Bobby to throw away the bottle, and most of all for his mother to tilt back her head in the carefree, glowing laughter that he so remembered hearing in his littlest years, like the sound of sunshine, enveloping the world in her cheer.

But reality always turned its ugly head, now didn't it? His father was gone and never to return. Bobby was a drunkard that John had murdered in a split second while the man drained the life from John mother- beautiful Julia, who hadn't smiled in so many years because life hadn't given her the reason.

He couldn't take it anymore, the stifling and depressing atmosphere in Ritchie's room. Suddenly and without apparent warning, he broke away from the tight line he had formed with his crestfallen friends and retreated to the hallway, desperate for a chance to be alone for a breather and clear his mind. His brain was whirring away at a million miles per minute, and skipping like a record, the same thoughts constantly replaying in his mind, and try as he might he couldn't remove the metaphorical needle from the soundtrack of his life. He stood in front of the door looking rather confused for only a minute or two before he realized that being sentient in the hallway wasn't doing him much good at all and headed down several criss-crossing corridors, only getting lost once or twice, until he found a certain room, the number of which Mary had told him over an hour ago when she was taking him, Paul, and George on the long and uncomfortable bus ride back to the hospital to visit Ritchie. He nervously adjusted the collar of his short before grasping the wooden door handle and turning it until the portal opened.

Once he had entered the new room he was greeted with a much more pleasant sight: his family. His mother Julia sat upright in a hospital bed, baby Julie in her arms, looking for the entire world like she hadn't been through the ordeal she had. Her curly, coppery locks fell down her shoulders, and next to her the normally paling hospital gown brought out the rouge tint to her cheekbones. She looked up reflexively when her son walked in, and smiled, a cheerful and much missed expression that somehow didn't exactly reach her eyes. As her twenty-month old daughter played with a lock of her own curly reddish hair- a trait she, like John, inherited on the maternal side, Julia waved John over to sit on the edge of her bed as she gently bounced her younger child. She looked as sunny and bright as the Julia John liked to remember- the Julia of the past.

"Hello, John," said Julia, her tone calm, light and composed. "I wasn't expecting you to drop by. In fact, I didn't even know you were here at all! Was there something you need?"

Slightly bewildered by the barrage of questions, John sat down on the edge of his mother's bed, letting his sparse body weight sink into the thin, rough covers of the bed. He looked down and swung his legs back and forth, back and forth. Usually, it was something he would do with George to annoy Paul, who was oddly particular about it, but for the time being it was simply something to do to pass time. "Ritchie's in the hospital," he deadpanned bitterly, his tone lacking emotion.

"Here?" Julia replied, puzzled and slightly confused. Annoyed and with a slight roll of his eyes, John shot back a reply, sarcasm lacing his words like cyanide. It was uncalled for and he knew it, but it wasn't the kind of day where he had the energy to put up with stupid questions and meaningless inquiry.

"What do you think?" He frowned immensely and glared at the floor after delivering his response, in a manner that suggested he was willing the uneven tiling to burst into spontaneous flame and swallow him up into the pits of hell. In a way, it would be much less miserable that the life he was currently leading. The thoughts were bitter, but the years had hardened him to a bitter young boy, cynical and insecure under a well-crafted, happy-go-lucky exterior that seemed to fool all he knew with the exception of Paul, George, and Ritchie- the only three people who actually knew him.

"No need to be snippy," was Julia's offhanded and annoyingly airy reply. She didn't appear to be taking him seriously, which infuriated John to no end. He bit his tongue however. "Do you know what's wrong with him?"

"There's nothing _wrong _with him," lamented John. "He's just sick. Of appendickatis. They did surgery on him, and now he's in a coma and he may never wake up again. They said yesterday he was going to be dead soon." He tried desperately to keep his wayward emotions from pervading his tone, but it was becoming increasingly difficult. For Christ's sake, why did he have to cry so damn much? Bobby was right. He was wimpy.

"John, it'll be fine," Julia sighed dismissively, prying her youngest child's chubby fingers from the corner of her hospital gown as she spoke. "Ritchie will be fine, you'll be fine, everything will be fine. It's not like you shot the boy or anything." There was a hard, almost sinister edge to her voice near the end as she delivered her not-so-comforting words of comfort. Taken aback, John drew his shoulders in ashamedly. It seemed her cheerful mood had abandoned her in a split second, and the little boy inched away from her, like her stinging words would cause him physical harm.

"When's his funeral?" asked John hollowly, looking for a change of subject. He didn't want to mention the name. Julia knew who he was talking about.

"In six days."

John did some quick math in his head before coming to a realization. "That's my birthday!"

"So it is," replied Julia. She didn't appear to find the fact important in the least bit. "I don't think you'll be wanted there. After all, Bobby's family will be there, and I'm sure they don't want to share the service with the little boy that murdered him." Julia had turned from slightly edgy to downright vile. John recoiled and stood up, backing away slowly.

"I was trying to save you," John whispered, eyes drooping as he hugged himself, like he was trying to ward off a chill, or his emotions, or perhaps both at the same time. He looked pointedly away from his mother's steely, blameful gaze. "He would've killed you. He would've killed me too. And I feel guilty already, you don't need to rub it in."

Julia brushed off the attempt at verbal self-defense. "Don't need to rub it in? I don't believe you understand the repercussions of what you did. Someone is dead because of your actions, and it's something that you're just going to have to live with!"

"He would've killed you!" John repeated, his voice rising slightly as he fought back a tremor in it.

"Bobby would never hurt us," Julia said. The resolute conviction in her steady voice was ever so slightly unnerving. "John, I think you should go." A truer statement could not have been said.

The little boy got up obediently. "Will you still pick me up and bring me home tomorrow?" he knew her release date was set for the very next day, and he didn't know whether or not he wanted to return with her. He would much continue to live with Paul than face his mother's scornful derision twenty-four hours a day.

"Yes, John," she said, obviously irritated. "I'm your mother and it's my obligation to care for you." John couldn't help but notice that she seemed to put a particular emphasis on 'obligation'. He nodded and walked out the door, shutting it softly behind him and began to walk back to Ritchie's room, his feet making rhythmic clacking noises on the floor as he went. He shoved his hands in his pocket and stayed close to the wall, allowing a large berth for passing gurneys to get by him as he went. Certainly John was ready to return to the McCartney household, away from all the vile memories he couldn't help but associate with the hospital. And he couldn't help but thinking that visiting either room that day had done more harm than good.


	19. Chapter 19

**Hello, everybody! Sorry it's been so GLARINGLY LONG since I've posted, but life's been busy recently... Enjoy, please! I don't know when I'll be able to post next, maybe next weekend. If any of you are Renaissance readers (the collaboration between Naturelover422 and I- check it out if you're unfamiliar!) I'll get around to posting Chapter 3 on Wendnesday.**

**-Claire**

October 8, 1948

It had been a week exactly since Ritchie Starkey had fallen into a coma after his appendectomy, and things hadn't gotten better for the unfortunate boy, or for his friends either. In fact, if anything, things had gotten worse. Each and every day George, Paul and John would come to the hospital right after school and sit next to his hospital bed, talking to him animatedly and continually in hopes that somehow the little boy would magically hear them and suddenly wake up to insert a humorous joke into the conversation like he normally would had the circumstances been different. Almost everyone was against their visits, from the disgruntled doctors to their worried parents, but both parties knew that nothing would deter the boys from their course of action, and so every day passed in the same respect as the last: sadly and grimly, with ever-diminishing hope.

School was different without Ritchie, less fun, like a sky without its sun. Without the most whimsical of the group, the walls of the school seemed to be grayer, the lessons more boring, the students more cruel and the already long day even longer. The teachers were vividly aware of what had taken place to cause the bright-eyed and bushy-tailed student's absence, and had given the class seemingly useless instruction to send the youngster their prayers. The most worrisome thing to George and Paul- not so much John, who was too busy wallowing in misery to notice- was that the teachers weren't giving them Ritchie's homework. During John's weeklong stay at the hospital after he had killed Bobby the teacher would give Paul or George John's homework in addition to their own to help the older boy catch up, but such a thing was not the case this time. It was as if the administration too had given up on any chance of his recovery- and, in a way, they had done just that.

As promised, Julia Lennon (whose name, due to common law, had been changed back to that of her ex-husband after Bobby's death) was released from the hospital promptly on the third of October, restored of her health and then some, and regained of the custody of both her son and little baby daughter, who, John had noticed, wasn't so much a baby as she was a toddler, beginning to explore the wonders of the world one step at a time. In addition to Bobby's blatant absence, there was one other large aspect of the small family's life that had radically changed. Since their previous Woolton abode was rented in Bobby's name, Julia had been automatically evicted from it immediately immediately following his death. Instead, they had to leave the relatively nice, proper, middle-class area and were instead given a small government house in East Toxteth, a small suburb close to Dingle, which was where Ritchie resided.

East Toxteth was a small area of Liverpool, and by a long shot the poorest and seediest. The dilapidated terraced house that Julia was assigned to live at, number 42 of Devonport Street was a small place, identical to the ones it was attached to, with two floors but only four rooms to its meager name. The lighting and plumbing were notoriously temperamental, and on any given day there was no guarantee that when one turned on a faucet it would even work, much less spurt out water that wouldn't poison anyone who dared drink it. There was no heating save for a small coal stove in the kitchen, one bedroom, a small and sparsely furnished living room, and a kitchen tucked away in a dark and dismal corner. The bathroom was cramped, and there was no garden out front or yard in the back- only weedy dirt and uneven concrete mixed in an unholy blend of inner-city sadness. The occasional cars of those who had enough money for them whizzed down the street erratically every once in a while, usually driven by a drunk or a joyrider or someone running from the cops. The city's windows were grimy, the doorways broken down, the shops abandoned, and the residents destitute. Crime ran rampant, rarely apprehended by the law, and there was a conspicuous lack of elderly that was left blatantly unaddressed. Although he was enormously glad to be out of the house where so many of his worst memories took place, Toxteth was a cutthroat, dangerous, gloomy place, and it scared John to no end, even though he didn't admit the fact to anyone. He would look at the surly knife-wielding teenagers and the sallow faced, famished children standing in the streets and know there was a very real chance he would soon be exactly like them- if he didn't already, that was. END

On the night that linked the seventh of October into the eighth, John was curled under an old blanket on the couch in the living room and sleeping, or at the very least trying. As in the old house, Number 42 had but one bedroom, which was occupied by Julia. Since the small family lacked enough money to buy a bed for John or a crib for Julie, the two children slept by night in the living room, John on the couch under an old quilt his grandmother had knitted before her death and Julie wrapped up similarly in a white plastic laundry basket filled on the bottom with towels to cushion it- the same basket, in fact, that she had slept in while Bobby was alive and they lived in Woolton. It was up to John every night to put his sister to bed, and feed her in the mornings when he could scrounge up the food from the meager pantry, and take her to the free public daycare before rushing off to school himself. The little eighteen month old was at the beginnings of speech, and starting the hard task of walking. Every time John saw his sister, she smiled as wide as she could and he couldn't help but return the grin. He loved her very much in the way only an older brother could. It wasn't the teasing, taunting relationship that George's older brothers had to him or even the slightly disconnected one that Paul and Mike did. Julie was John's sister, the only family member he had that still liked him and was unaffected by the misery around her. This was a fact, too, not an imagining by John's naturally self-deprecating mind. He had no contact with his father's family, his mother's many traditionally conservative sisters had sworn her and her reckless lifestyle off, and the only grandparent he ever saw was his grandfather, an old, disdainful, grouchy man bitter by the loss of his wife and disappointment in his youngest daughter- Julia, that was. John didn't care too much for the man, and since Julia seemed to be doing her best to avoid John, all he was left with was Julie. Sweet, perfect, smiling Julie, who didn't deserve the life she was forced into. Not in the slightest.

Thunder crackled outside, signaling an oncoming rainstorm. It was a dark night, black as ink, and Toxteth was unnervingly quiet- like all the normally rowdy and violent inhabitants were lying in wait for something big. The rundown living room was shadowed, the only light coming from whatever brightness the moon cast into the tiny house from the even smaller windows. It was cold, and John pulled his blanket tighter around him. While a couch was certainly an improvement over the cupboard he used to sleep in, John couldn't quite seem to accustom himself to the openness of the couch. Even when he had been staying with Paul he had the young boy next to him, a reassurance which greatly calmed his nerves on those nights when he was feeling particularly bad.

Nevertheless, as he did every night, John fell asleep eventually, temporarily leaving reality to welcome in an even darker unreality. As he slipped seamlessly into unconsciousness, his mind began to run away from him. The nightmares returned.

_He was alone. It was cold, and the room he was in was completely white, a painfully bright almost color that accosted his senses, overwhelming him to the point where he couldn't think of anything else except the amazing brightness of the white. Suddenly, a voice loudly called out into the expansive oblivion, the word, _Choose.

_Suddenly, cued it seemed by the mysterious voice, his mother was beside him, looking so innocent and beautiful, all curly red hair and bubbly laughs and pearly white teeth spread into a smile free of sorrow, decked out in a soft blue dress, her green eyes sparkling in mirth, and all about her an aura of love. Then beside her, John's father appeared, sharp and neat in naval dress, dark slick hair combed back across his head, a mischievous and cheerful glint in his proud eyes, exuding an air of happy-go-lucky self confidence. On either side of him, his two parents kneeled down to John's own eye level. Caught up in the joy of seeing both his parents together and happy, John forgot the voice and reached out to touch them, to hug them, but his hand went right through. Almost like they were ghosts._

Choose,_ commanded the voice yet again, more forcefully this time. John opened his mouth to respond, but no sound came out. "Choose," said the voice, louder, angrier. _Choose! CHOOSE!_ Frightened by the voice's persistence, John reached out to point at one of his parents, but before he could, the images faded and the room darkened into black. Then suddenly he was falling, reaching his arms out desperately to catch himself, to latch on to something, and he screamed as loud as he ever had, but no matter how he tried no sound emerged from his mouth._

_And just as quickly that reality was gone too, leaving John in a small room made simply of wood. The air was quiet and peaceful then an alarming shriek pierced the tranquility. It was a woman's shriek, accompanied by the tortured wail of an infant, and a mad male cackling, punctuated by the crack of a whip that served, it seemed, to intensify the pained sobs. John knew who it was, he knew what was happening. It had happened many a time before, and he was overcome with a desire to do something to fix it, to stop the sorrow from getting to his mother and sister. He ran around the room, banging on the walls with all his might, stomping on the floor with hopes to break through it, and when nothing worked, when he realized he couldn't undo what was happening, he plugged his ears with his index fingers in an attempt to block out the horrible noise, but nothing worked. It just kept getting louder, louder… Sobs triggered by his own perceived uselessness wracking his thin, undernourished body, he sank to the floor, hands over his ears, wishing more than anything for it to stop, for it to be over… for everything to be over… for it to all just go away… go away… please go away… why won't it all go away?_

You wimp, _a new voice pervaded his thoughts. _You worthless bastard, _it sneered. John looked up and saw the one man he never wanted to see again, who may not be alive in the real world but was still there anyways… there in the memories engrained on his mind… and even more horribly there at night… to taunt… tease… insult… to get done the torturous actions he could no longer accomplish in real life. It was Bobby Dykins stood before him, his black hair slicked flat, his moustache enhancing the evil sneer of his mouth, a belt in his hands. He lashed out with the belt and it hit John across the chest, and his shirt tore open in response to the action along with his skin underneath, revealing to his horror, the white of his rib cage… blood poured out, much more than the wound warranted, spilling down his front like a waterfall, unceasingly… it spread across the floor, which had somehow turned back to white, staining it… there was so much blood, all of it John's. Why was there so much blood? How much blood does a person contain? The whip cracked again and again… and it hurt… the pain John would always remember returned… insults tumbled out of Bobby's mouth as he went, quite literally adding insult to injury._

_A clatter, and John looked in front of him to see the metallic glint of a pistol floating in a shallow pool of red… he was on his knees now, saturated from head to toe in blood… there was so much blood. He hated seeing his own blood. Blood, blood, blood… he saw it every day. Every night. The cold metal beckoned him, and the whipping stopped suddenly._

_The silence didn't last long at all. As John timidly regarded the gun, a scream resounded, high pitched and loud, anguish pervading the tone… and John looked up to see his mother, clad in a white dress stained crimson at the hem by the rising sea of blood, held tight against Bobby's chest with a knife to her throat… the sea of red grew higher, and his sister floated past in a bassinet made of bones. John reached out to catch her, but his hand went right through her form, and her cries faded as she floated away. His mother screamed again._

Do it, _commanded a voice. _Do it now. _John looked behind him and saw none other than Paul McCartney, looking for all the world like he belonged there, standing more straight than any six year old did, dressed in black, eyeing John maliciously… what had John done to warrant such a glare? He wasn't sure at all. He felt something cold in his hands and looked down to see that the gun was wedged between his palms… even though he didn't remember picking it up…_

Do it! _Hissed Paul again, louder this time. His face was that of pure evil, murder incarnated… no trace at all of the charming young boy that he normally was, or at least should've been._

_Another scream, a wail of epic proportions pierced the air, and John turned and looked ahead to see Paul, but the normal one- not the demon behind his shoulder. He stood in front of John's mother, another knife pressed to his throat, held by Bobby's other hand. Tears ran down his cheeks and disappeared into the sea of red, and John wanted nothing more than to kill whoever was causing Paul such pain, such fear… if only he could work up the courage to shoot the gun!_

_A black spot appeared on Paul's chest and he cried out. John realized with a sinking horror that Paul was actually decaying, flaking away at an alarming rate like a moldy log right before John's eyes… the spot grew, and Paul screamed higher, his eyes pleading and pained._

Do it! You can make it stop! Do it now! _It was the voice of Bad Paul again, behind him. John turned to answer, but his mouth wouldn't work when he tried to respond… terrified, he dropped the gun and brought his bloodstained fingers to his face and ran them along his chapped lips, realizing that there was a reason he couldn't talk. Thread pierced his lips, haphazard stitches pulling his mouth into a stretched, forced smile… his mouth was sewed shut, like a little rag doll that the schoolgirls played with._

What are you, scared? _It was a new voice, one John recognized, but no, not here, not now. It couldn't be, or at least shouldn't be. A hand roughly grabbed John's face with more force than necessary and the owner of the voice looked John in the eye. John could tell who it was very easily, but he refused to believe it. The grip on his face tightened. John hadn't the energy to force the grip away. The screams of Good Paul and John's mother escalated into an impossibly loud register, and John could see them out of the corner of his eye, both of them decaying now, cuts appearing on their bodies and oozing not blood but something else… a sinister, black fog that filled the air._

You parasitic wimp, _hissed George, for that was who it was that held John's face to his own. George pushed John back into the red tinted sea with a pronounced air of disgust in the action. The sea, it seemed, had grown higher… whose blood was it that compromised it? Spluttering, John spit out the vinegar tasting blood that had gotten into his mouth and looked at George in trepidation, fearful of what he might do._

_George taunted him like it was the most fun sport in the world. _Get a load of yourself! _He jeered. _What a pansy, can't even shoot a gun to save us! Right, Paul?

_Bad Paul responded with a condescending affirmative._

Look! _George commanded. _Look what's happening, look what's happening that you can fix. _He forcefully pulled John up by the collar of his shirt and forced his eyes to look at the scene. Julia Lennon sank to the ground, collapsing, her blackened body disintegrating into the pool of red, darkening it. Smog filled the air, and the blood sea around John darkened. Paul gave John one last pleading look before, suddenly, a knife poked its way through his chest and he, too, met Julia's fate with a gasp of surprise and a final whimper. And now George, a Good George, was in the middle of it all, up to his rib cage in the awful sea. He opened his mouth and no words came out, only more blood. And he too, collapsed silently into the sea, a sea which was no longer red but black… a bloody black… slippery like oil, like concentrated essence of death. _You could've fixed it, _Bad George lamented. _But you didn't.

You could have saved us,_ Bad Paul added disappointedly from behind him. _But you didn't. You _chose _not to save me, Johnny. And now I'm gone forever. Both me, and George. How're you going to deal with that? _There was malice in the tone, but not as much as before. It was more a statement of regret than anything else, only frosted by anger._

Gone, gone, gone, gone, gone, gone, gone, _echoed George, singing eerily, like he was mocking John. He wanted to look behind him, but he was too afraid of what he might see. A tear escaped from his eye, and he wiped it away as best he could while holding the gun that had yet again reappeared in his hands to find that it wasn't the salty liquid of crying but blood… just more blood. John bowed his head and shut his eyes, wishing that George and Paul and his mother would return… or that he could join him, more accurately…_

Well then, _said a more reasonable voice, with a nonchalant sense of levelheaded, clinical detachment. John looked up hesitantly and saw the face of Ritchie Starkey, his blue eyes unmistakable, but his normally charismatic demeanor replaced by a robotic manner. He knelt beside John and spoke again. _You waited too long to save them. But you can still fix everything. You can fix everything, and it'll be so easy. _He sounded so sure of his convictions that John smiled slightly. As he wiped his tears hastily he opened his mouth, and was pleasantly surprised to notice that the stitching had somehow disappeared._

How? _He said it hopefully, but so quietly that he could barely hear himself. Ritchie shook his head and didn't respond for a while._

You know how, _he said eventually. _Just shoot the gun. It'll just be so easy, Johnny, just shoot the gun. Shoot the gun and we can all be together. _His words were so persuasive, and he stepped back, looking at John with his unsettlingly emotionless gaze._

_All was quiet. Not a sound was made._

_John pointed the gun straight at Bobby's heart and closed his eyes._

No, _said Ritchie, just moments before John pulled the trigger. The little boy looked up to see that yet again his friend was right beside him yet again, chiding him gently in the manner a teacher would a particularly slow student that she was still yet rather fond of. _What good would that do to kill him? Everyone is dead, Johnny. What good will it do to kill him? _He spoke the words like the answer they attached to was so easy to come by, and his habit of repeating things made it seem all the more plausible that his solution was the best one. With a single, slow movement, as if realizing John wouldn't be able to come to the conclusion himself, Ritchie moved the gun so it was pointed at John's own chest. And then, he finally smiled. John had missed seeing that smile for a very long time. _Just shoot the gun, Johnny, _he said, cajolingly. _What gives you the right to live? What gives you the right to live, and be happy, while everyone else is dead? What makes you so special, huh? You don't deserve it, just like I didn't, so shoot the gun, John. Shoot the gun. And then everything will be fixed. What do you have to live for, anyways?

_He was right. Everyone else was dead, dead and gone. Even Bobby transformed to dust behind Ritchie as the slightly older boy spoke and dissipated into the stifling air of the room, which was musty with the smell of blood and death and the inexplicable stench of misery. The sea of blackened gore that had surrounded John lowered steadily until it disappeared altogether, taking the smell with it and leaving only a clear, white room, devoid of anything. Devoid of sound, of life, of any light except for the glaringly ubiquitous brightness. Even Ritchie had gone, vanished it seemed into thin air._

Nothing, _John's mind echoed. _Nothing. And it's so easy.

_Fittingly, just one final tear slipped out of his eye before John cocked his finger and pulled the trigger._

John awoke to the sound of his own screams, the shock of wakening so suddenly sending him tumbling off of the couch and onto the floor in a heap of limbs and twisted covers. Frenziedly, he ran his hands all up and down his body as he lay on the floor, just to make sure everything was there and to ensure that there was no blood anywhere. Once he was satisfied that he was still very much in one piece, John fumbled blindly around the room until he found a light, and he flicked it on, bathing the living room in a bright yellow light that blinded him momentarily with its intensity before he could adjust.

He suddenly became aware of Julie's cries, which were probably what had awoken him in the first place. He made his way quickly as possible over to the basket she slept in and breathed a sigh of relief once he saw that she was, except for the sobs, okay as she sat up in her small bed and wailed. If she was crying, that meant she was alive. Alive! But what about the others? John's heart was consumed with a sudden dread that outweighed his happiness at seeing Julie. While it had occurred to him that his dream was only that- a terrifying figment of his own overactive imagination- he was still yet overcome with the pressing, if irrational, need to ensure that everything was all right with everybody and the horrifying events of his dream hadn't somehow held over into the real world. Neglecting to even attempt to silence Julie's sobs, John raced over to his mother's room and wrenched the door open, noting, relieved, that she was still there, still sleeping, the gradual rise and fall of her chest very much assuring that she was indeed alive.

But he had no time to celebrate, and once he was assured that she was alive, he was gone again. Without much in the way of thought, John ran back across the living room, tripping over tables and misplaced items as he went, and opened the front door, starting a blind run across the street, shoeless and coatless, not even really registering the fact that rain was coming down in torrents around him. He hadn't even shut the door behind him. The only thing he had managed to remember was his glasses, which he hastily jammed onto his face as began running down the street as fast as he could. Perhaps a small part of him realized that what he was doing was insane, but the majority of his mind was in too much of a state of disarray to think rationally. He needed desperately to get to Speke, where George and Paul lived, to make sure they weren't… he couldn't even think the word. And Ritchie was in the Dingle… no, the hospital… or was it? Where was Ritchie? Where was _he, _for that matter? John's mind was fuzzy, frenzied as he blindly ran down the streets of Toxteth Liverpool, his breath coming in short gasps as he ran through the rain, the concrete slicing the soles of his feet mercilessly as he went. He must have sprinted at full speed in the direction of Speke for almost forty minutes before he had to stop from sheer exhaustion, the restless exertion bringing him unwillingly to his knees in a pronouncedly pathetic manner. His heart was beating like a rabbit's, faster than was healthy for anyone, and he was light headed from the over exertion. With no other alternative, John placed his hands on the sidewalk and retched. Not much came out, save for some bile and a little bit of water. He had skipped dinner, and his lunch was meager at best. Once he was done with his self-defeating fit, which lasted a good five minutes, John's arms gave out from sheer exhaustion and he collapsed into a heap on the sidewalk, torrential rains pattering against him, pressing his hair down, making his pajamas feel like they weighed a ton. It was dark out, and his glasses were askew and covered in raindrops, a problem which he had neither the means nor energy to remedy. The cold made him shiver, but he had no energy to get up. His muscles were shaking uncontrollably. Perhaps a young boy who had the means to keep himself well-fed and wasn't in such a haphazard state of mind could've ran at top speed for forty minutes, but not John, certainly not. His mind was cloudy and he couldn't think to save his life- in fact, he couldn't even move his arms, and the only sensation he could feel was the achy constriction in his chest, the pain in his cut feet, the heaviness of his muscles, and the still worry for George, Paul and Ritchie's lives.

John didn't really know at all how much time passed between when he collapsed on the sidewalk and when he heard the footsteps, but it must have been a very long time because by that point the rain had numbed his fingers and toes, his heart rate was down ever so slightly, and the white hot pain from the cuts on his feet had given way to a sharp ache. His lungs were still heavy, however, forcing out wheezy and erratic breaths in lieu of normal breathing, like his chest cavity had been filled with lead. He was only somewhat lucid, and had long since forgotten where he was and why he was there, or even what was happening to him. He was only vaguely aware of his surroundings when the footsteps came. He could recognize the sound, but his mind couldn't connect the sound with any sort of impending action. The only things he could see through his lopsided, watery glasses were vague, distorted shapes with the unreal quality of a dream about them that made him doubt if he was even awake.

"Ey, what's this?" said one voice in the amused tone of a drunk person, sounding very far away to John even though in reality the man who owned the voice was mere feet away from him. The footsteps of a couple more people were heard, but John didn't register.

"Little boy, looks like," was the slurred reply from another. "Think he's got anything on him?" his words were hopeful, in a vulture-like sort of way.

"Dunno," a third one stated rather. A sharp, but somewhat misdirected, kick was delivered to John's side, and the shock of it brought him slightly more to his senses, even though his perception still remained hazy.

"Hey, kid," the first one said, his words running together. "Get up, will ya?"

Another kick, and John blinked and looked up to see the faces of three thugs, like black outlines against the dark grayish-navy sky who looked to be in their early twenties, stumbling slightly from the alcohol that was surely in their systems. John recognized the situation, and surmised that he was probably awake (as the current situation would make for a very strange dream indeed) but failed to comprehend the threat posed by three young, strong, drunken criminals surrounding him on all sides.

"Search 'im," said one disinterestedly. "Probably nothing more than… than chewing gum." It took him a few seconds to come up with the words he was looking for. Another, who appeared to be a lackey of the first, hoisted John up by his collars and pinned him to a nearby brick wall belonging to some sort of bar or warehouse or housing development, feeling around the pockets of John's sopping clothes for something of value. The rain still continued to pour down, invading every crevice of John's body. At about this time, he recognized the danger of the situation and began kicking out wildly in retaliation, like he had done whenever he found himself in such situations with Bobby. However, the tactic didn't work with Bobby, and neither did it here. A hard punch landed on John's jaw, and he reeled back, his head smacking the wall before lolling forward again like the teacup ride at an amusement park. His vision clouded with black spots and his head throbbed, along with his face where he had been hit. Dazedly, he blinked and whimpered slightly.

"Shaddup," muttered the one who had hit him, even though nobody had actually said anything. Perhaps he had been referring to the small noise John had made "Nothing here," he said resignedly after a while of searching John's pockets. "Not even some bloody chewing gum…" Swears of angry disappointment resounded among the small group and John was dropped suddenly to the ground, the rough concrete scraping him through his clothes and making his side sting. He winced, and forced more constricting breaths from his chest, knowing that trying to fight would only make it worse.

"Take the glasses, then," one of them said. "Bet the pawn shop will take 'em…"

"Right," said the third one. John's glasses were ripped from his face, and he reached out feebly to catch them, but someone kicked his hand before he could, and John yelped from the sharp pain of it and clutched his hand to his chest.

"Fuckin' kid," one of them muttered, angrily kicking John in the stomach. John recoiled inwards, gasping, trying to regain the breath he had never fully had in the first place since his running spree. A few more kicks later, one of them picked John up and tossed him carelessly into the opening of an alley before they all walked away, drunkenly laughing and jesting at one another, not caring at all for the boy that had just mugged, beaten, and left in the rain.

Meanwhile, John lay prone on the ground, vision blurred, his heart still thumping, all his emotions mixed into one big ball of confusedness. Slowly, he sank into oblivion, gratefully allowing the dark, almost-sleep world of unconsciousness take him.


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: It's official, people! Twenty chapters and stilll going strong! We're in it for the long haul here, folks! And please read mine and Naturelover422's story, Renaissance? One review is pretty depressing... Anywho, enjoy! R&R please :)**

**Disclaimer: Boy, I haven't written one in a while... but I don't own the Beatles. If I did, I wouldn't be writing about them on Fanfiction, now would I?**

**-Claire**

October 9, 1948

John hadn't shown up at school on Friday. The fact wasn't particularly concerning to Paul, however. John had quite the reputation for not caring for school one bit, and would often shirk coming to his classes. His delinquent status was something he quite prided himself in, and even though Paul disapproved of his friend acting up as much as he did, it did provide him some protection as John's friend against a few of the bullies, with the exception of a few- take Oliver Danes, for example, who in John's Friday absence had tied George to a flagpole during recess. Despite this reputation of his, it was odd that he would decide not to come in altogether, as he usually made it at least for lunchtime and recess, and of course the weekly art class requirement that he was so fond of. Granted, the fact that he didn't come on that particular day was strange, as that was the day the art class took place, but Paul wasn't worried about that. Perhaps he had caught the stomach bug that seemed to be going around the school and decided not to show up. So long as he was okay today, on his eighth birthday, in Paul's view everything would be fine.

It had been made abundantly clear by John that he wasn't to have a party- according to him, he didn't want one, and he certainly didn't if his only family wouldn't bother to plan it for him. However, Paul and George intended to surprise him with one anyways. It had been George and Ritchie's idea to actually throw the celebration, but it was Paul who had come up with the plan to keep it a secret. They didn't bother inviting anyone else, as John wasn't the most social of types. It would just be the two of them and John, gathering together for a day of goofing off an silliness- the two things they were best at.

The present was the thing Paul was most excited about. He, Ritchie and George had scrounged up just enough money to get it from a nearby discount shop, and while it wasn't the most expensive thing on the market it was just perfect for John in a way that they couldn't quite explain. It was just that when they along with Ritchie (who wasn't sick at the time) saw it, sitting with its brethren on a small shelf that they had visited after school one day as John meandered elsewhere in the store it had simply screamed 'John' to them. That was five weeks ago, and even though Paul sorely wished that Ritchie could be awake to give it to him with them, he still intended to present the gift to John with George. It sure did make him feel rather guilty, that his friend wouldn't be able to be at a party that had been partly his idea in the first place. Surely Ritchie would understand when he woke up. If he woke up…

Paul pushed the errant thought from his head with a slight shake, like he was physically trying to jar it loose. It was no time to be thinking such dark things. He needed to keep about him his Paul-esque cheer, finesse, and optimistic friendliness. It was absolutely crucial. He was going to a party, and parties are no time to be depressing.

Through the corner of his eye Paul saw the bus pull up in front of his house and stop to let on passengers. With one quick adjustment to his shirt and a hasty goodbye shouted in the general direction his mother, the excited youngster grabbed John's present and was out the door in a flash, boarding the bus just as it was about to pull out. The driver, not Mr. Harrison like he was used to but a different man, looked at him sternly and shook his head, disapproving as most adults were over children, no matter what they were. Ignoring the withering glance to the best of his ability even though it wounded his feelings immensely, Paul quickly located George, sitting in back of the bus next to an extremely fat woman, and joined him.

"Was beginning to think you'd backed out, y'know," George said nonchalantly, regarding Paul with one of his expressive eyebrows cocked. "Do you have the present?"

"Yes," Paul answered, patting the jacket pocket in which he had it stored. "Why wasn't John at school, do you know?"

"No. He's probably skipped out again. You know he likes to do that."

"We had art class today," pointed out Paul, nervously doing and undoing a button on his small tweed jacket- a nervous habit of his. "Doesn't he always come to art class?"

George just gave a non-committal shrug, and adjusted himself slightly, trying to shirk off the rolls of the fat lady's stomach from his arm as best he could without coming off as rude. How someone could possibly have any excess weight in the current economy was baffling to George, even though he didn't really know what an economy was. He himself was thinner than a reed.

"I don't like this," Paul announced, continuing on even though George hadn't actually responded in the literal sense. "He _always_ comes to art class. I hope nothing's happened." The thought worried him and he bit his fingernail. The last thing needed in his life at the moment was more complications. He was already worrying enough about Ritchie, he didn't need to worry about John too.

"I'm sure he's fine," reassured George.

"Mm…" said Paul. "I don't think I can handle two of my friends being not okay… You'll stay okay, though, right George?" he asked hopefully.

"Yeah," was the reply, this time in a softer tone, a response to the sincere way Paul put out the question. "I'll be here, Paulie." George reached over and gave his friend a comforting hug, a rare show of emotion on his part.

"Good," Paul said, seemingly satisfied, breaking away from the embrace after an appropriate period of time. However, he was still troubled, and George could tell. When it came to being apart from one another, the boys all had a way of knowing when something was the matter, and while George hadn't been paying attention to Paul's worried ramblings at first, as he began to really think about it, it was odd. John never missed a full day of school- normally he only skipped math classes and physical education. He always made it to the weekly art lesson, and generally made it to English class except in rare instances. It truly was odd that John wasn't at school on Friday. Should the fact trouble him? He felt like it should. But all the same, George didn't like to cause unnecessary stress on himself or others without good reason.

It was almost fifteen minutes of relative silence punctuated only by meaningless small talk until the bus made its stop in East Toxteth. After paying the few shillings fare, the two disembarked the belching hunk of a vehicle and began walking over to John's house, which was about ten minutes away from the stop.

Paul stayed close to George, who acted politely like he didn't notice Paul's palpable fear. Even though they were both acting too proud to admit it aloud, they were both scared witless by John's new neighborhood, from the broken bottles and shattered windows to the scarily empty, haunted feeling that permeated the entire place. There was an almost tangible sense of suspenseful misery about the whole area, the kind nobody was fond of and that nobody in their right minds would go out of their way to experience. Toxteth was a place for people rejected by life, down on their luck and with no place to go- and it showed in the very air.

The pair arrived at number 42 Devonport Street with help from the street signs blissfully without incident, although they did pass by several shady figures and a couple of beggars that Paul handed out some coins to out of pity. Immediately they were struck by the shoddiness of the abode. They hadn't been to John's new house yet (although they did, through their respective parents, know the address) and hadn't realized the state of it. It was a poorly kept town house, small and made of slightly cracked gray stone whose walls were only almost straight. The few windows, although they weren't boarded up like a lot of Toxteth windows, were small and had an air of neglect about them.

"Is this really where he lives?" Paul asked hesitantly.

"I guess so," replied George. He wasn't quite as shocked as Paul at the state of the place. His own home wasn't so great either- the littlest boy's family existed in a perpetual state of financial misfortune similar to that of Julia Lennon and her small brood, and his parents two incomes- one as a bus driver and the other as a ballet teacher- were only just enough to feed their three youngest sons and help their daughter to go to college in America. The difference, however, was that they had been given a relatively nice town house, the kind good for raising kids that his parents had been years on a waiting list for before George had even been born. And even though it was in Liverpool, a place definitely not ideal for raising children, it was okay. It was a safe place for children. Not like this.

Paul knocked on the door (it lacked a bell) and then stood back, waiting for an answer. None came, however, and he knocked again, slightly more impatiently this time, but not even a stir was heard from inside. The two boys shared quizzical glances, and Paul knocked a third time, now as hard as he could and unrelentingly. It was the kind of knock a person simply cannot ignore, and he only stopped after an irritable neighbor yelled out the window to 'Fucking stop that goddamn racket!' George even hoisted him up to look in through the semi-clear glass of the windows to make sure nobody was there, but Paul confirmed disappointedly that there was nobody inside. George let him down, and patted the dejected boy's back as he looked at the ground, looking on furtively as the cracks in his friend's optimistic armor began to make themselves known.

"Where do you think he went to then?" Paul asked, looking up and scratching behind his ear.

"Maybe he's doing something with his mum," George suggested, shoving his hands into his pockets. The sharp sound of breaking glass sounded in the distance, and it only reminded George of how blatantly unsafe it was to be alone in Toxteth with no form of defense against a potential mugger. "It is a Saturday, after all. The factory's probably closed."

"No," Paul shook his head. "Factories only close on Sunday. My mum told me. Plus, Bobby's funeral is today, and I _know _John doesn't want to go to that. I don't think he's allowed, besides… Where else would he be?" The young boy reached into his pocket and groped around for a second to make sure that John's birthday present was still there, feeling slightly better when his fingertips grazed the rough newspaper it was wrapped in.

"I'm sure he's fine," George assured him in an uncharacteristically flippant manner meant to sound confident, even though he wasn't sure himself. Paul had a point; there truly was no place he could think John would be. After all, it wasn't like he had many hobbies or other close friends. But still, it wasn't a reason to jump to conclusions, was it? There was probably some very simple explanation as to why John was nowhere to be found, and when they figured it out everything would fall more or less into place again.

"Of course he's fine! He's John!" snapped Paul, apparently forgetting that he was the one who brought up the possibility of something being wrong in the first place.

"Geez, Paulie," George muttered. "Snappy much?"

Paul sighed and looked at his feet. "Sorry Georgie," he mumbled. "Maybe he's at his Aunt's house… Aunt Hattie? He visits her sometimes. Or maybe his Aunt Anne… She lives back over where I do. And his sister's probably at the funeral."

"Yeah, maybe," was the tired sounding response. Paul's suggestion was a shot in the dark, but his suggestion was truly the most reasonable one George could conceive. "Well, let's go then. This place gives me the creeps," George cast the surrounding area a nervous glance, as if expecting someone to jump out at him any moment. For all he knew, someone could. It was entirely possible. George could almost feel the horror stories of Toxteth coming to realization. Paul nodded shortly in agreement, looking even more frightened.

"Sure, Georgie," he said, biting his lip. "Let's go."

As they walked disappointedly back to the bus stop, they didn't really talk. Best of friends though they may be, George wasn't in the mood for conversation and deflected Paul's feeble attempts at it all the way down the gray, cracked sidewalk. Naturally unsociable, George felt like his capacity for conversation had been exhausted somehow, and needed a couple moments of silence to revel in his own thoughts, The small youngster shoved his hands in his pockets, hunched his shoulders, and donned the moody, sulky expression that had grown typical of him over the years. It was kind of a default for him- he would always slip into the surly look whenever he got caught up in particularly pensive thoughts.

It was only after they had been walking for twenty minutes that they realized something was quite dreadfully wrong- they were completely and utterly lost. George was the first to come to the conclusion of what had happened at one point or another, and he suddenly stopped in his tracks in the middle of the sidewalk and looked around, eyes widening slightly when he realized what had happened.

"Paulie?" he asked slowly, glancing down the street.

"Yeah?" Paul turned around and regarded George with one eyebrow cocked.

"Do you know where we are?"

Paul looked around him in much the same manner as George- benignly at first, but then as he came to the conclusion that he didn't, in fact, know where he was, his look was overcome with uncertainty. "Well…" he said nervously. "Aren't we on Carton Street? That's the way we came…" He looked extremely uncertain of his convictions, and bit his fingernail, his brow furrowed in worry. The few people that were on the street pushed past the two confused boys uncaringly, not offering any help but not causing them any trouble either.

"No," George shook his head and squinted to read a nearby street sign. "Halfner Street."

"Oh god…" Paul said. "We're lost!"

"Well, no kidding…" George muttered. "Or course we are, if we don't know where we are. What should we do, anyways?"

"Get a map?"

George rolled his eyes. "We can't get a map, Paul. Where would we find one anyways?"

"Right… well I'm sure there's a way we can work this out. Maybe we can ask somebody."

"Like… who?" George didn't know of anyone beside John who resided in Toxteth, and was none too keen on having to enlist a stranger's help. Never had he been a fan of the awkward exchanges between two people he didn't know, and while he wouldn't hesitate to comfort someone in need or offer his own assistance, he definitely didn't want to find himself in the other position.

"I don't know! Someone."

With a sigh, George shook his head at his friend. "Fine, Paulie. But I'm not asking. If you want to get directions from some sort of criminal, go right ahead. I'll be staying right here, thank you very much." He crossed his arms and tilted his head upwards in a way that, he hoped, suggested that his decision would not be swayed.

"Fine," Paul muttered. "What happened to friends sticking together anyway?"

"You're a big boy, you can do it yourself. I won't go anywhere."

"But… criminals…" Paul looked at George with such a sad and pleading look that George had to look away, lest he start to feel sorry for his friend and completely contradict his motivation. George Harrison had made a decision, and by golly he was going to stick with it! Nobody would push him around, no sir… Although, it had admittedly been a bad idea to plant the idea of criminal encounters in Paul's head.

"There won't be any criminals, Paulie. Forget I said it."

"Pleeeeeeease come with me, Georgie? I won't embarrass you, I promise!"

"Okay, okay!" George relented with an air of annoyance, and with his hands in his pockets began to follow his friend. He shook his head at himself, slightly disgusted at how feeble his convictions had turned out to be. "How'd you even let us get lost, anyway?" Absentmindedly, he kicked a small rock with his foot and watched as it skidded across the cracked pavement and into the road. A car whizzed down the road erratically, like it was being driven by someone who didn't exactly know what they were doing, and knocked the small rock farther down the road and into a drainage pipe.

"Me? I thought you were leading the way!"

"How could I? I was behind you."

"Well…"

"Oh, just drop it Paulie," George sighed dejectedly. "You still have John's present?"

"Yeah," Paul muttered, pulling it out of his pocket to show it to George. Once satisfied that George had seen it, he returned it to his tweed jacket and pulled the lapels tighter across him in an effort to ward off the cold. It was probably about 45 degrees, which to most English people was nothing, but Paul chilled easy, and the weather sent goose bumps up and down his arms. While walking, his foot splashed into a small puddle left by the rainfall two nights before, letting water into his shoe, which afterwards squelched with every step. The water was cold, and he could feel it between his toes every time he put his foot down on the pavement. He whined, quietly and pitifully so George couldn't hear him. Nothing seemed to be going right.

Noticing a small pair of shops a little while up the road, it occurred to Paul that asking a shop owner for directions would be supremely safer than simply knocking on someone's door without knowing who would answer. Paul nudged George and pointed ahead to the shops. "Hey," he said. "You go into the first one and I'll go into the second one?"

George looked up with an air of boredom. "Sure," he said. It was good an idea as any.

"Great!" Paul said, beginning to jog animatedly up the road to get to his destination, and not for the first time since he's known him George marveled at Paul's seemingly boundless energy. It was like he got energy from the very air around him. Truly, it was amazing. Even Ritchie would burn out after a while, but not Paul. How his older friend could be so animated, George had no idea.

The two shops were separated by a small alleyway and a little, one-story establishment with boarded windows that perhaps had been another store or house, but had ceased to be long ago. As he made his way to the first one at much more reasonable a pace than Paul, George pulled up at his pants, making a mental note to ask his mother for a belt to hold up his too-wide trousers, and was about to leisurely turn into the slightly foreboding convenience store when he heard Paul scream out.

It was a sound so terrifying that words couldn't even begin to describe it. Even though Paul did yelp quite often- whenever something frightened him, he would do such, whether it be a loud noise or the announcement of a test or John and Ringo pouring bucketfuls of water over his head unexpectedly, a stunt they did expressly for the response it would garner from Paul. But this scream was so much different in every way. It was loud and high, filled to the absolute brim with complete terror. George halted dead in his tracks mere steps from the door of the convenience store when the sound hit his ears. It felt like his heart suddenly stopped, at least for that moment of time. What was happening to Paul? Was someone hurting him? Questions flew about George's mind, and in that one terrible instant he thought the worst, that someone could be daring to commit the worst crime conceivable to his best friend…

But it wasn't any time for thinking, and as much as George liked to analyze situations before throwing himself into them- truly, he would rather not get involved in most things- it wasn't the time for it. It was a time for immediate action, and George did just that, abandoning his position in front of the convenience store and sprinting as hard as he possibly could the thirty feet to where he judged Paul to be, not caring for his own safety. So long as Paul was alright, he could handle whatever was happening, he rationalized.

"GEORGE!" Paul wailed pleadingly. Pounding harder, George ran farther and was almost to the second shop when Paul suddenly jumped into his path from seemingly nowhere, which forced George to stop so suddenly lest he run into his friend that he almost toppled over.

"Paul! What happened?" George asked, his words slurring together in his adrenaline fuelled frenzy.

Paul didn't respond- at least not linguistically, and just then George noticed his friend's face- his hazel eyes wide and fearful, an expression of the worst kind of shock possible, like a deer in the headlight, his hair a twisted mess on his head. He didn't look hurt, but still, something was terribly wrong. George could tell from the way Paul looked at him, hopelessly almost, like he was going to deliver some sort of terrible news. After what seemed like forever staring at each other, Paul shakily held up a hand and pointed into an alley, the motion slow in its execution, which only served to enhance its meaning. George turned his head towards the alley and peered in, the light of day illuminating the first few feet of it.

Right there in the entrance to the alleyway was an unconscious John Winston Lennon.


	21. Chapter 21

October 9, 1948

"Holy shit!" George exclaimed in his surprise. "Paul, what happened?" He took a step backward from where he stood in complete shock and clapped a hand over his mouth in a way that would've been overly clichéd in a different circumstance. George turned to his friend as he fired the question, the heels of his shoes spinning on the uneven concrete sidewalk as he did. A few pedestrians passed by, seemingly oblivious or uncaring of the situation.

"I don't know!" Paul cried, his voice rising several octaves near the end, for once ignoring the rare expletive that had come from George's mouth, a true testament to the direness of the situation. Had it been any other day, Paul would've gone off his rocker about George saying a bad word, but now it was the least of his concerns. "Is he alright?" It was an exclamation and a question at the same time. Paul bit his thumbnail, a nervous habit of his.

George shot Paul a look of the _way-to-react-in-a-crisis _kind, and then focused his attention back to John, who he began to tentatively approach. Certainly it wasn't the time to ponder what had happened. Action was needed. He kneeled down next to his friend, instructed Paul to flag down anyone he saw who looked helpful, and studied John intently to make sure, absolutely sure, the worst wasn't true.

John was breathing, almost impossibly slowly but breathing nonetheless, which was good. It meant he wasn't dead, after all. The birthday boy was wearing dirty, rain-soaked pajamas and there was an ugly bruise on his cheek, which George winced at in sympathy. Lying on the ground with his arms spread at his side, John had on no shoes, there were cuts on his feet, and he was paler than George had ever seen a human being- like a sheet of paper. He reached out and touched John's face and recoiled at how terribly cold it was. How long had he been out there anyhow? George furrowed his expressive eyebrows in concern and took off his coat, which he laid over John in a feeble attempt to warm him, not worrying for the moment about how angry his mother would be that he had gotten the garment all wet.

"Excuse me sir!" Paul called out to one of the few of the street's pedestrians, who ignored him and kept walking along. "Sir! Sir, please, I really need some help!" It was useless, however. None of the many people he tried to wave down listened to him.

"George!" he sobbed, turning around to sit next to his friend, who was still beside John with an air of thinking very hard about him. "Georgie, nobody's wanting to help!" He wiped his nose slightly and sniffled. "Is Johnny alright?" His last sentence was meek and worried.

"I don't know," George sighed. Suddenly, he reached over and slapped John's cheek, hard enough to be felt but not hard enough to hurt. "John! John, wake up! Come on, Johnny, wake up!" Nothing. Not even a stir. That was bad, wasn't it? George was fairly certain it was. What if John ended up like Ritchie was?

"He's really cold," Paul observed. "People shouldn't be that cold." Paul then took off his own coat, balled it up, and put it under John's head as a pillow and began trying to blow his breath on John's hand to try to warm him up.

George ignored him, and instead mulled the situation over in his head. It didn't look like anyone would be giving them any help. _Bastards, _George thought to himself. That only left one option, and that was to take the matter of getting John to help. The plan already formulated in his mind, George reached behind John and grabbed him below the shoulders, surprised at how light he was. John was over three centimeters taller than he was, leading George to assume him to be heavier- but no, his young friend was light as a feather, much like himself.

"Paul? Little help?" George grunted. Light as John was, he didn't seem that way after a while holding him in the same uncomfortable position.

"We're _carrying _him?" Paul asked, flabbergasted, picking up his now-wet jacket from the ground and pulling it back on, not really paying attention to what he was doing. In fact, he didn't even notice he had put it on backwards. He regarded George with his mouth open like a fish's.

"You have a better plan?" asked George. When he got no response, he commanded "Then grab his legs." Obediently, Paul nodded and picked John up by the legs, and together with much coordination the two boys carted their friend down the gray sidewalk. The few people that they passed looked at them oddly, but none offered help- a few even muttered derogatory insults under their breath at the boys, to which George scowled and Paul frowned.

"Poor John… his feet are all cut up," Paul said softly after they had been walking for a few minutes. He shook his head to clear the wayward hairs from his line of vision. "Do you think he left his house without shoes or something?"

"I don't know," George muttered. "Maybe someone took them. You know how people are around here." was only then that he noticed Paul, who he eyed suspiciously, as the older boy didn't seem to be very tired from carrying John at all. It didn't appear that the older boy was very tired at all from carrying John down the road as they had for the past few minutes, meanwhile George was struggling more and more with each step… it quite frankly felt like his arms were about to give. "Hey, princess, pull a leg," he muttered, repositioning his arms under John's torso.

"I am," Paul defended, adjusting himself only just enough to count. "You have the heavy side anyway, s'not my fault… we should bring him to my mum. She's a nurse, she can help him…"

"He doesn't need your mum, he needs the hospital!" George snapped suddenly, causing Paul to jump slightly in surprise at the outburst and almost lose his grip on John. George continued. "For crying out loud, can't you see how serious this is, Paul? John could really be hurt! Don't you get that?"

"Well I'm sorry, Georgie! Don't yell at-"

"John? George? Paul? What's going on?" A new and obviously familiar voice broke into the impeding argument. Paul and George whipped their heads around to see John's mother, the one and only Julia Lennon, standing before them, clothed in black funeral dress, her thick and curly red hair in a bun pulled behind her head, and her green eyes rimmed slightly in red with kohl smudged around the edges. Obviously, she had shed some tears at the funeral. Neither George nor Paul could even fathom why. Bobby had been such a cruel man to her. He had completely ruined her life; his mere presence had demoted her from an affluent young woman living in the beautiful Woolton suburb with her son to a single and destitute working mother in Toxteth, disowned from her own family for her bad decisions. Young Julie, in recognizing her brother, happily cried out his name, which had been one of her first words. She was less than two years old, and couldn't possibly understand what was transpiring. Julia, however, was beginning to.

"Julia!" George exclaimed, nearly dropping the woman's son in surprise.

"George, what's going on?" Julia demanded, her voice full of trepidation. She let go of her daughter's hand, and the little girl ran to her brother and began to try to talk to him, telling him innocent details of a funeral whose purpose she hadn't understood, not noticing even that he didn't respond to her.

"We- we found him, John, in a, a-" George stumbled over his words uncharacteristically, finding himself woefully unable to convey to Julia just what had happened without scaring her. The wildly fearful expression on her face was enough to trip him up. He didn't want to be the one to tell her something was wrong, and certainly there was.

"Is my son okay? Please tell me you're just playing a game with me!" Her voice was desperate now. She knew how unlikely it was that they were just toying with her. Prankster though her son may be, Julia knew her son would never go as low as to commit such a terrible trick, and from the expressions on Paul and George's faces she knew even more certainly that something was quite amiss.

_Since when do you care what happens to John? _George thought bitterly to himself. Never had he seen the woman before him so involved in her son's life, at least not in recent history. Perhaps at the beginning, when he had only just met John, but after those first few weeks of George's knowing Julia she had always been too enamored with Bobby and her own affairs to notice whatever problems John had, problems he would always share with his friends when his flighty mother found herself too busy to care. Whatever opinion George had harbored of Julia Lennon as a 'cool' parent in the early days were gone, replaced by his perception of her as the neglectful one she was.

"I-" George began again, but stopped once more. How to even begin?

"Give him to me," Julia commanded suddenly, holding out her arms. The two boys immediately complied, handing John to her without complaint, surprised to say the least when the small and bony Julia held her son in her arms with ease, turned on her heel and practically ran down the road, her heeled shoes clacking swiftly against the concrete. She didn't even look behind her as she went, except to command Paul to grab Julie and for the both of them to follow her in. Obediently, Paul grasped Julie by the waist, and with a little help from George was eventually able to get her into the piggyback position on him and the three of them caught up quickly with Julia.

"Bad?" asked Julie choppily from Paul's back, apparently finally having picked up on something being wrong with the situation at hand. She pulled a lock of Paul's hair and asked the question again when she didn't get a response. "Paulie! What bad?"

"Nothing's wrong," Paul said dismissively.

"We're playing a game," added George.

This was something Julie understood very well. "Game!" she smiled.

"Um, Miss Julia, where are we going?" Paul asked nervously, hoisting Julie up farther on his back. Despite circumstances, George smiled at how uncomfortable Paul was keeping the young Julie aloft on his back. Her fidgety form didn't offer purchase on Paul, and she kept sliding down until her rear end almost touched the sidewalk, forcing Paul to hop and wiggle until he could get her above his hips again. It was a sort of semi-sadistic humor that could only be found in an extremely serious situation.

"Hospital," Julia muttered shortly in answer to Paul's question, not even bothering with full sentences. She looked at her son with worried eyes as she briskly walked along the sidewalk. "I want you to tell me everything. What happened?"

Paul was the first to pipe up, perhaps recognizing the fact that George didn't at all feel like talking. "We found him just now in an alley," the young boy explained. "We went over to your house to surprise him, you know for his birthday… and he wasn't there, so we started to go home and then I passed an alley a couple blocks back and he was just there, not awake or anything."

"Did you try to wake him up?"

"George did. He tried slapping him awake, lightly though, and he kept shouting his name but nothing happened." Paul was quiet for a moment. "John was cold when we found him. Is he still now?"

"Yes…" Julia murmured, hugging him closer to her and shivering from how icy he was. "Oh, Johnny," she continued, shaking her head. "Thursday night… Last I saw him was Thursday night! And I woke up for work, I thought he had gone to school… and when I came home, it must have been eleven, I thought he was asleep… why didn't I look! Or before today even, but the funeral, I was so distraught… damn it! Stupid, stupid, stupid…" she seemed to be talking more to herself than either of the boys and they didn't respond to her, instead silently power walking beside her and exchanging worriedly uncomfortable glances along the way. Julie, who was obliviously humming a tune all her own, was eventually switched from Paul's back to George's, the latter of whom eventually took pity on the former, who even after he had been rid of the small girl walked slightly bent over, like giving her the short ride had deformed his spine somehow.

As she lived in the city, Julia knew the streets at least somewhat well, and quickly she navigated herself to a bus, which she boarded along with the four children, including John who was still hanging limp in her arms. There were no seats available when she got on, all of them being filled with the grayscale Liverpudlians that occupied the city, but a kindly businessman upon seeing her vacated his place to allow her to sit down and hold John on her lap, lengthwise so his head or legs didn't invade on the space of the people on either side of her. Paul and George for their part made do sitting in the aisle with baby Julie in George's lap. In an effort to pass the time, Paul bit his fingernail once again, so much throughout the ride that the ends of his fingers turned red from his incessantly nicking the skin with his teeth as he went. George bounced his knee in his own nervousness, engaging in conversation with Paul every once in a while, but neither of their hearts were really into it. Julie eventually fell asleep in the latter boy's lap, blissfully into the senseless world of slumber. Throughout it all, Julia sat tersely in her hard plastic chair, her face never betraying emotion, and once the bus stopped at the Newton Memorial Hospital- the same one that housed Ritchie, and the same one that was the workplace of Mary McCartney- she practically sprinted off and into the double doors, followed closely by the trio of perplexed children.

And then, after all the madness, Paul found himself inside that awful waiting room again, George slumped glumly by his side like he had melted somehow into the chair, and Julia Lennon nowhere to be found. John, the second he had been taken in, had been placed unceremoniously on a rolling metal table- a gurney, as his mother had said they were called- and shepherded off through the complex latticework of hallways. And that left him alone with George, who Paul knew only too well wasn't going to want to talk.

The chair he was sitting in was of the plastic-covered-and-foam-stuffed kind. Too much stuffing shoved in tight, shiny, scuffed up gray plastic material, held into a chair-like position by wrought metal rungs. And on the seat, just next to his thigh, was a small hole in the plastic, showing the yellowing foam underneath. Paul ran the pad of his finger over the hole, noting that the stuffing underneath felt almost waxy to the touch. For a few minutes he made a game of playing with the chair's imperfection, picking and pulling at the edges of the hole, slowly making it larger and larger. For those few minutes he was entertained with that, but the small prick of cheap chair stuffing couldn't hold his attention long. And even as he was playing with it thoughts pervaded his mind, unceasingly it seemed, and eventually he stopped, leaving behind nothing but a slightly larger hole in the seat cushion and dark ramblings.

It seemed like hospitals were a fixture in his life. This particular place of Newton Memorial had been so familiar to him since he could remember, and even before that. Paul had even been born there, eighteenth of November back in 1940. There had been a time when hospitals, outlandish a notion as it seemed now, were places of happiness. They were full of sweet nurses and bright eyed doctors, pretty young girls selling poppies from trays to support a faraway war effort.

But that was the past, when the place he was at now wasn't one of pain and horror and misery- and, worst of all, the sinking feeling of cold dread in the pit of his stomach that made him feel close to throwing up from his mounting worry. Back then he was innocent, shielded from the reality of the world. Hadn't he been stupid? There wasn't a way for him to stay protected for long. Perhaps it was better for his childish spirit to be shattered now than later. Paul leaned back in his chair and hugged his knees to his chest, putting his head down. Where did the wonders of yesterday go?

"Paul? What are you doing here?" a soft inquiry lofted through the sterile air and the boy in question looked up to see none other than his own mother Mary McCartney, clothed in her pressed white nurse's uniform, slight concern readable in her eyes. He could not have been happier to see her.

"Mum!" Paul cried, hopping out of his chair and grasping her in a ferocious hug so sudden that she stumbled back involuntarily. Surprised as though she may have been at his presence, she didn't show it, and returned the hug soothingly, whispering softly into his ear.

"Honey, what's the matter?"

"Johnny's really hurt," Paul said, his voice muffled by the rough fabric of his mother's uniform.

Mary made a sharp intake of breath and paused a moment before responding. "What? Was there an accident? Paul, sweetie, talk to me," she wheedled gently, sitting down in the nearest seat and pulling her eldest son onto her lap. Even though he wasn't outright crying, she could still tell with her motherly sense that he was upset. She petted his dark hair softly, knowing it always made him feel better.

"I dunno," Paul sighed. "I went to his house to see him this morning, but he wasn't there… and then we got lost and found him in an alley all beat up and cold, and then we found Julia and she brought us here."

"Julia, John's mother?" Paul nodded in response.

"I'm here too, not that anyone seems to care," George added seemingly from nowhere. He had an amazing knack for disappearing into the mist only to reappear sometime later with a snarky comment or two to chime in with. He glanced over at the mother-son duo with his arms crossed over his chest from his seat three spots away.

"George," Mary gently admonished. "Of course we care about you. Come over here." She opened up one side of her hug and invited the boy to the shared affection.

George hesitated a moment, feeling slightly uncomfortable hugging people that weren't his own family, but who was he kidding? It was Paul, his best friend, and Mary, one of the sweetest women to ever grace God's green earth. Eventually he scooted over and sat in the seat next to Mary, leaning over the armrests to put his head against her shoulder and close his eyes. He was so tired, but he hated to sleep, especially in public. And besides, he was absolutely determined to hold out until they got some news on John.

Despite the comfort of the hug, Mary did have to leave after only a few minutes, for after all she was at work and needed to do her job. She promised, however, to bring back whatever news she could about John when she returned next. So reluctantly Paul let her go, and George moved into the same seat as him; since they were both small, they could fit comfortably.

Minutes passed, that much was abundantly clear, but whether or not the hours passed or how quickly was hard to pinpoint. Had it even been hours? It was doubtful, but still quite possible. Was it that the minutes were dragging out infinitely or passing like seconds? Time, it seemed, ceased to exist in hospitals. There were no clocks, no windows, no way to tell.

"Hey George?" Paul asked quietly after what seemed like forever. Forever, and no Julia, no Mary, and no John. He looked absentmindedly across the room, his vision lopsided by the fact that his head was n George's shoulder. "We're gonna be okay, right? All of us?"

"Who knows?" George shrugged, his latent cynicism showing through.

"But George…"

George sighed at the tone in Paul's voice and nodded. It was wrong to rob Paul of whatever hope and innocence he had left. "Yeah, Paul. We'll all be okay."

"Good. That's what I thought."

**A/N: Sorry I've been long in the update! But please review, it makes my day, and remember to tune into Renaissance! Lol, I sound like an infomercial. My bad :)**


	22. Chapter 22

October 11, 1948

He was awake long before his eyes opened.

It actually took him a while to realize that to see he needed his eyes opened. But the actual process of coming to consciousness just took so much energy somehow that after he was fully self-aware he felt like he needed some time to readjust.

The world came into focus slowly, one bit at a time. At first everything was a heavy black, like being deep underwater, but then the weight began to lift, the darkness slowly dissipating until it was a grainy gray and eventually giving way to hazy color, subdued and blurry, pastel almost.

But then the world was clear and sharp again, perfectly crystalline as it should be. Colors, brighter seeming than ever before, invaded his mind and instinctively he shielded his eyes from it. His arm was oddly heavy to lift, not so much that he couldn't hold it up but quite enough for him to notice the difference. He put it down and blinked a few times, noticing for the first time his surroundings.

He was in a hospital; that much he could recognize. After all, he had been in a hospital before. Was this the same time? He couldn't quite remember. His inner mind was still fuzzed over, and although the oppressive blanket clouding him was lifting slowly it wasn't altogether gone. He yawned, and winced slightly at the slight twinge it brought to his jaw.

There were three other children in the small room, all to his right. His bed, it seemed, was all the way to one side, and there was a tube stuck into his arm and, for whatever reason, up his nose, all attached to an IV drip beside him. His sheets were thin whitish cotton, crumpled and crinkled around him, no trace of the stereotypically perfect hospital corners he had seen before, the few other times he had been to the hospital. It was like he had been neglected, almost, although he knew no such thing would happen. He had only been there a few days, hadn't he?

Tiredly, he sat up slowly, rolling his head from side to side to work out the kinks that had made his way into his neck. The motion, however, proved not to be a good idea when the room around him began to spin dizzily and he had to stop and close his eyes again. Slow movements, he decided, would be key here.

Suddenly, a nurse bustled into the room loudly, shoving in front of her a metal cart full of materials that she pushed to the side of his bed. Whistling absentmindedly, she began to prepare some sort of syringe, and just as she was about to poke it into his upper arms, she apparently noticed that her charge had awoken. Her mouth widened into an 'o' shape and she put the syringe down and quickly kneeled down next to his bed with a wide smile on her thin, friendly face.

"Well!" she said as a way of greeting. "Look who's up!" when the confused young boy failed to respond, she continued on chattering to fill the void. "It's great to see you, sweetie. I'm going to go get the doctor now, okay? He'll probably want to talk to you." She patted his leg softly and stood up to adjust his IV bag.

The young boy in the hospital bed nodded sleepily, only half-registering what had been said, and twirled between his fingers a fistful of his hospital sheets.

The nurse seemed to pick up on the exhausted cues the little boy was putting out. "I know you're tired, but you have to wait a little bit to go to bed, alright? I'll go get the doctor now." And then, quickly as she had come, the nurse was gone, leaving behind her silvery instrument cart in her haste to fetch the doctor. He couldn't help but wondering why getting the doctor was so imperative.

It took a while for the doctor to come, during which time the bored youngster studied a spider web stretched across one corner of the room he was in and tried once or twice to wake up the boy next to him, but to no avail. Perhaps it was the middle of the night and that was why everyone was asleep. He made a note to ask the doctor of that when he came.

The actual conversation with the doctor was relatively mundane when he came ten minutes later, consisting mostly of easy chatter about how he was feeling, and did he remember this or that or why he was there. A couple of things he had to be reminded of, but once he was the memories came flooding back and by the time the doctor had to leave, he was sleepy and content, and on top of it all knew what time it was. As he had been reminded, it was important to sleep to allow himself to recover, and he was more than content to oblige.

"G'night," he mumbled to the doctor, who was already halfway out the door to tend to his next patient. The doctor stopped, turned and smiled softly.

"Goodnight, Richard," he said.

**A/N: Ahh, a cliffhanger! Okay, now serious time people, I need reviews, and I'm starting to think the lack of feedback means it isn't too good. But I'm fine with honest reviews, flamey or not, and if I don't get any I may have to stop this story... But anyway, I hope you enjoyes :)**

**-Claire**


	23. Chapter 23

October 12, 1948

As usual, the manner in which George Harrison awoke that cold and foggy Wednesday morning was none too peaceful. Like every day since he could remember, the sound of quickly escalating shouts ripped him straight from his dreams and into the harsh reality otherwise known as life.

"Oh, you're such a baby, will you just grow up already!"

"You idiot, you'll pay for that! I'm calling mum!"

"That's what makes you a baby, you call mum all the time!"

"MUM!"

"Shut up, Peter-"

"MUM!"

"Damn it, Peter!"

"MUUUUUUUUUM!"

George had heard enough. "Will you _both_ just shut your mouths for once in your life?!" he yelled as loudly as he could, pointedly pulling his thin covers over his ears in a fruitless attempt to block out the noise of Harry and Peter Harrison howling at one another over what, at the end of the day, would amount to nothing. The biggest downside to having three siblings, George had long since decided, was the continually pestering racket, only amplified by having to share a small bedroom with his two brothers. No matter how loving his parents may be, their calm attitudes never did anything to quell the rivalry between Harry and Peter. A rivalry that both parties involved it seemed would gleefully try to pull their younger brother into.

"Ooh, look at Georgie-bear!" sang Harry snidely, the oldest of the Harrison boys at eleven. "Come on out to play with us, Georgie-bear!" with a gleeful air to the motion, the older boy suddenly grabbed the edge of George's mattress and in one swift, practiced motion flipped the seven year old off the bed and onto the rug, none too gracefully or, for that matter, painlessly.

"Hey!" George yelped, standing quickly and brushing himself off. "Leave me alone!" He said so right into Harry's face, standing on tiptoes to match his height and leaning into the older boy imposingly.

"Standing up for yourself, huh little George?" Harry replied mockingly, batting his eyelashes like a schoolgirl. George wrinkled his face up in anger, seething. What was normally everyday banter and typical quarrelling between the three brothers had intensified recently. Or maybe it hadn't, and George simply perceived it differently. The stresses of everyday life were building, slowly but surely, and what were normally minor annoyances seemed amplified into major grievances to the young boy. George now had not one but two friends in the hospital to worry about, Paul's frayed nerves and emotionality to tiptoe around, ever-present schoolwork to complete, bullies to avoid religiously, arguments to listen to idly and parents to keep it all away from. It was nerve-wracking, to say the least, and his normally long fuse had been growing shorter and shorter. Maybe soon he would snap, go mad, get sent to the loony bin… but that couldn't happen. Who would take care of Paul?

George was about to open his mouth to make a scathing comment back to Harry, but just then the door opened and there stood Louise Harrison the elder, hands on her hips and regarding her three misbehaving sons with a half-bemused and half-scornful look on her face. "Boys," she said. "What's going on up here?"

Suddenly, Peter became very interested in finding matches for his school socks, leaving Harry to answer. "Nothing, mum, just talking."

Louise didn't look like she fully believed him, but she let the excuse go and nodded. "Well," she said. "It's nearly seven, you three have to catch the bus. Come on, breakfast's on the table." With a wave of her hand she beckoned like a dog trainer, and two boys came running after her, the third lagging lethargically behind, for once in his life not caring whether or not his brothers stole his food.

As he passed his seventeen-year-old sister's room, he noticed a rustling, and as he peeked in saw a young, dark haired, mean-looking teenager kiss Louise Harrison the younger on the cheek and duck out of the room via the window. George snickered in spite of himself, and made a mental note to put something gross on the windowsill. As much as he loved his sister, her boyfriend was insufferable and none too nice to George the few times the two had met.

Breakfast passed as it usually did. Harry and Peter fought all through it, paying no heed to their father's threats to 'whoop you two to kingdom come'. A bowl of oatmeal was spilled on George's head and Peter, despite swearing it was an accident to all involved, got the promised whooping in addition to a long lecture from Mrs. Harrison on wasting food in such trying times. George smacked Peter over the head in a fit of rage over having oatmeal in his hair, and his only punishment was a cuff on the ear courtesy of his mother. According to the man of the house, Peter had duly deserved it.

After washing the oats from his thick hair with the painfully cold tap water, George wrestled on his school uniform, grabbed his books, and jammed his feet into his shoes- Harry's old ones passed onto Peter who had passed them onto George. They were scuffed and worn, half a size too small and with a hole on the bottom of the right one that the resourceful George patched with a piece of cardboard wedged inside. Shoes were expensive, and it was always Harry who got new ones anyway being the oldest and first to grow. Louise, being the only girl child, had a wardrobe all her own, but George was stuck with the washed up remains of what might have once been respectable clothes. He always looked shoddy, and he hated that. But alas, it was the curse of the youngest.

The school day was nothing extraordinary, or even remotely interesting. The first few hours passed in monotone, lessons that neither George nor Paul were particularly invested in. Less than halfway through third hour, which happened to be math, Paul had to leave school early for a yearly checkup with his doctor, and George was left all alone, in a school full of children that nonetheless felt deserted.

Once lunchtime rolled around, there was nothing the youngest Harrison wanted more than to just leave and go home, possibly forever. Well, that wasn't quite true. There was nothing he wanted more that for his three best friends to be around him. Secluded as he generally was, he missed the company of having all of the little gang he had created around himself with him, more than he ever thought he could miss anything. He loved his friends- annoying as they may be sometimes. He would take John poking him incessantly while Ritchie tried to give him a forcible haircut over the miserable loneliness he was feeling at the moment. Sitting alone at the regular corner table, far from the annoyances of the other students, George shoved a forkful of tasteless pasta into his mouth tiredly, not even registering the sauce that splattered onto his cheek. Soon the cement-like pasta was gone, however, and he was left with nothing to do but twiddle his thumbs and wish the clock would move faster.

His eyelids were growing heavy, and he crossed his arms on the table in front of him to rest his head on. Certainly it would be a bad idea to take a nap at school… he wasn't three after all. But he was so terribly tired… hadn't slept well at all the night before, much too racket from Peter and Harry, and his keen ears could pick up the sounds of whatever his sister and her boyfriend had been doing in her bedroom. Jumping on the bed, possibly, he could hear the springs of the mattress squeaking into the wee hours of the morning, on and off…

An indeterminate amount of time later, someone's voice punctured his dreaming. "Well, look who's taking a nap!" the nasally jeer came from somewhere that seemed quite far off. "Let's take a walk, Georgie!" sadistic glee filled the voice, one that George could recognize but not put a name to. Then, before he could even register what was going on, he was being seized by the shoulders and carted off somewhere, his head lolling around in his half-awake state.

He was set down gracelessly on hard ground and fell flat on his behind, which finally shook him from the stupor of sleep he had been in the throes of. Standing up slightly too quickly, George blinked to clear the sleep from his eyes and noticed he was in the courtyard, and nobody was around. Except, of course, for Oliver Danes and two of his most trusted cohorts. Naturally.

"What do you want now?" he muttered, slight anger present in his voice as he brushed dirt from his trousers. He tried to sound cordial, however, as he had found Oliver to be slightly less cruel when George was nice to him, sickening as it was.

"That's no way to talk to your senior, now is it?" Oliver asked innocently, circling around George, his manner clearly menacing but at the same time controlled and suave. His buddies hung back, leaning against the brick wall of the school and checking giddily to make sure nobody was coming to stop Oliver from whatever he was going to do. Oliver, greasy and black-haired and hard-knuckled, leaned into George, and the younger boy glared back at him.

"I was about to say the same thing to you," George answered smoothly, his face stoic. Almost immediately, he was shoved backwards so hard he did an involuntary backward roll on the hard-packed dirt of the courtyard, and came back slightly disoriented. It had been a very stupid thing to say, but he was sick of Oliver acting better than him all the time. Oliver's two buddies chortled at George's misery and the young boy scowled.

"You just said the wrong thing, punk," Oliver said, his voice low and threatening. _Punk? _George thought. He hadn't heard the word before. There was no time to ruminate on Oliver's mainly monosyllabic vocabulary, however, when he was lifted by the collars up to Oliver's height, five or so centimeters above his own.

"Get away from me," George replied, trying to mimic Oliver's menacing tone, his teeth gritted.

"Skinny little asshole," Oliver hissed, tightening his grip on George's shirt.

Time seemed to slow down in between Oliver's comment and what George did next. Perhaps it was the heat of the moment that made his do it. Perhaps he didn't even really decide to do it in the first place, and it was only a subconscious action he was helpless to as he was to his own heartbeat. But the most likely explanation was that he was fed up. Completely and utterly fed up, sick of people pushing him around all the time like they owned him. Sick of the piece of crap life had turned out to be. Not necessarily his own life, but life itself, the lives of those around him, and by extension he supposed, his own. He was disheartened, completely disenchanted by what the world really was. George could remember vividly being a small boy, sitting on his mother's lap as she told him wonderful tales of kings and queens, knights in shining armor and damsels in distress. Talking animals and happy endings, fantastical worlds that could be his with a wish upon a star, a prayer to God, a click of his heels. Dreams, innocence lost. It seemed like forever ago and yesterday at the same time that he had believed her, and how stupid could he possibly have been? To believe such things, to believe that if he did good things, good things would happen to him: if he was nice to others, they could be nice to him. George Harrison was sick of being nice.

And that was how he found himself suddenly sitting on top of Oliver Danes, pinning the older boy down on the cold courtyard with his meager weight, his fists flying back and forth. One hand punched Oliver as the other one wheeled back, and the positions would switch. Blood came from Oliver's nose but George didn't care. Oliver fought back, and blood began to come from George's own nose eventually, but he didn't care. His entirety was possessed by white-hot rage, blinding him from any other feelings. Oliver wailed, pleading George to stop, but he didn't listen. Oliver had never stopped. Why should he?

"You fucking prick!" George screeched. "This is what you get for being such an asshole! You deserve this! You deserve all of this! Go rot in hell for all I care! I hate you! I hate you! I HATE YOU!" he was screaming like a crazed chimpanzee. Oliver's cohorts stood next to the school, unsure of what to do, exchanging looks of utter shock that George had stood up for himself instead of gritting his teeth and bearing it as per usual. Eventually, one of them ran off towards the school doors and the other began screaming for help. It was these developments that finally brought George from his haze, made him drop his fists and get off of Oliver, his blood running cold in fear. Naturally Oliver would put all the blame on George when they were caught, knowing the teachers had no knowledge of Oliver's incessant bullying. The small boy looked at Oliver, his face bloody, laying woozily on the ground and bending over like he was close to puking.

"Hey, you! Get back over here!"

A teacher. It was the voice of a teacher. Good lord, they had gotten a teacher. Instead of hanging about, George turned on his heel and tore out of the schoolyard like the devil was after him, kicking up dirt clods in his haste. He ran straight across the courtyard and hopped the fence, but he didn't stop there. He ran down the city streets, running from the teacher, yes, but mostly from misery, like his own emotions were tangible things he could escape so easily.

George ran. And he didn't stop running for a very long time.

**A/N: Thank you all, SO MUCH, for all the wonderful reviews! Oh my good golly gosh, I love you all! Okay, I know this chapter is short, but it was the best stopping point I could find. I'll update soon, probably... Okay, trivia question: who can guess where I got the idea for George's 'explosion'? Review, please! Big bear hugs to everyone :)**

**-Claire**


	24. Chapter 24

October 12, 1948

Eventually, after what seemed like forever running, George found himself at the local pawn shop, panting from exertion and garnering odd looks from those around him. He leaned against the side of the building, hands on his knees, breathing hard and running a hand through his sweaty hair disgustedly. He hated to sweat. It was one of the reasons he sometimes skipped physical education with John. Self-consciously, he stood up straight and attempted to fix his hair, eventually giving up when he realized he didn't really care what his hair looked like.

Out of lack of anything better to do, George wandered into the pawn shop, Rolling Dice it was called. The doorbell made a soft dinging noise when he came in, and the few patrons in the place gazed up disinterestedly before returning to whatever they had been looking at beforehand. The man behind the counter shot him a lethargic, bored gaze, and lit a cigarette in a practiced motion, letting the smoke lazily waft upwards to the ceiling and disappear to places unknown.

The pawn shop was one of Liverpool's haunts for the out of luck. The few rich and affluent people of the small Lancashire city wouldn't be caught dead in the place; Rolling Dice was where one went to get crappy stuff for good prices. Old clothes and jewelry, odds and ends and stopwatches and pocket knives and children's things and even things like guns made their way into the dilapidated store at some point, half of it stolen and the other half sold to make quick cash for expenses that the previous owner couldn't quite make. George had seen many things from his own house go to Rolling Dice over the years, from his sister's outgrown dresses to toys that he and his brothers had gotten too mature to play with, and sometimes even things his parents had sold for a new school uniform or rent or lard when times got tough, and it was an odd feeling to see something that he used to call his own sitting in a dusty shelf in a back alley. But still, there was something reassuring about Rolling Dice. It got so many customers that it would never even think of going out of business, and besides that it was relaxing. The interior was dark, lit by old secondhand lamps that gave off dim light at best. It was cluttered and smoky, shelves full of things that were never related in every corner, haphazardly and randomly placed, and the steady flow of customers was so evenly dispersed that there were rarely more than three people there at once. It was serenity, a nirvana disguised in a little brick square on the corner of Elrond and Spinner. And that certain peacefulness was exactly what George Harrison needed at the moment.

Several minutes he spent wandering up and down the aisles, not caring particularly where he was going although he did avoid occupied aisles for the sake of not having to go through any awkward excuse-me's with people he didn't know. And all the time he thought, his mind whirring, for George was a thinker and a good one at that.

Why, exactly, had he done that? He had no idea whatsoever. His emotions had simply gotten away from him. He had snapped, like a frozen rubber band pulled one degree too far. All the frustration he had worked so hard to keep inside had simply burst forth, in the form of punching Oliver Danes in the face until the both of them looked like roughened cage fighters. George wiped his nose thoughtlessly and winced when he did so. Oliver had gotten quite a few punches in himself, and the rough sleeve of his uniform had irritated the soreness. He rubbed his hands over his raw knuckles and sighed. Boy, his mother would throw a fit.

After a few minutes, something caught his eye, a small glint of glass that would've otherwise gone unnoticed had the rare light coming in from a nearby window not hit it just right. Squinting against the brightness, George reached over and picked up the item, holding it in front of his face to get a better look.

It was a pair of glasses.

And not just any glasses, either; they were the glasses of John Lennon. There was absolutely no doubt about it, George could recognize them anywhere. The round, brownish-black wire frames with lenses fit inside, the left side slightly lopsided from the right from the frames being bent somehow or another, the not-quite-child-but-not-quite-adult size, everything about them. But the real clincher was on the right lens, the miniscule letters _JWL_ scratched into the glass on the upper right corner. They were John's initials. He could even recall being with John when he scratched the letters into the glass with a finely sharpened lead pencil. After all, how common were such initials? George faintly remembered that when they had found John in the alley three days before, he hadn't been wearing the glasses, but it wasn't such an unusual occurrence and besides, John's spectacles weren't top priority in George's mind at the time. Therefore, he hadn't taken much notice, but now he could remember.

He took a glance at the price tag sloppily tied to one of the earpieces, and nearly dropped the glasses when he read the number. Twelve pounds! That didn't seem right. A person could buy a bicycle for the same exact price, less if it was a used one. George could never afford to buy them back, and neither could John, and of course neither of their parents could spare the money. With a glance to either side, George quickly placed the glasses in the pocket of his jacket and headed nonchalantly the other way.

It wasn't really stealing, he told himself as he continued pacing nervously up and down the aisles. Obviously it wasn't by John's own admission that his glasses had been pawned, for as much as the older boy hated the lenses he did need them and was quite carful in preserving them. With the exception of the slightly bent side, they had spent nearly a year perfectly intact; John was quite protective of his glasses. And all he was doing was returning to John what was rightfully his.

George's efforts to control his rapidly beating heart proved fruitless. _It's not stealing really. _He repeated the mantra in his mind, over and over, and patted his jacket pocket discreetly just to make sure the glasses were still there. He turned and headed to the front, and was about to quietly slip out of the front door when a voice startled him.

"George?"

Surprised, and with his nerves more than a little frayed, George yelped and sprung at the sound and, somehow with the action, the glasses fell out of his pocket and onto the floor. He looked down at the glass on the floor, then up again, and his heart nearly jumped into his throat when another voice joined the scene.

"Hey! You, kid, give those back!" It was, of course, the shopkeeper, no longer lazily puffing a cigarette but stubbing out his smoke on an ashtray as he angrily, and overwhelmingly quickly, made his way around the counter to confront the young thief. Quickly with no time to think, George bent and snatched up the glasses and bolted out the door, tearing down the sidewalk amidst the outraged shouts of the shopkeeper. Once he was sure he was out of sight, he ducked into a conveniently placed alleyway and leaned against the wall, trying to regain his breath. He held the glasses in front of his eyes, and sighed in relief when he was reassured that recent events had not broken them. George gently folded the spectacles and placed them, yet again, into the pocket of his jacket and sucked in a breath of life-giving oxygen.

"George?" said someone, the same voice as before, startling the boy in question once more. He certainly had been jumpy lately, and he spun around to face… Paul McCartney, standing right behind him in the alley entrance, head cocked to the side and his black hair disheveled, hands stuffed into the pockets of his khaki school pants.

"Jeez, Paul," George muttered, looking down in slight embarrassment and scuffing the ground with his already scratched up shoe tips. "Sneaky much?"

Paul either ignored the sarcasm or simply didn't notice that George's comment was laden with it. "Where were you? I came back from the doctor during math class, and you weren't there! What were you off here for?"

George said nothing, simply because he didn't feel like talking.

"There was a rumor going around that you beat up Oliver Danes in the courtyard and he had to be sent to the nurse's office. Is that true? Because I saw him on the bus, and he looked like… well, like someone who got beat up." Paul thoughtfully scratched his chin, trying to come up with a better analogy for what Oliver had looked like on the bus.

"Ah…" George said, searching, like Paul, for something useful to say.

"You did!" Paul exclaimed. "You beat up Oliver!"

"Yes, but I'm not proud of it," sighed the younger of the two boys, sulking out of the alleyway and down the street, Paul following close behind. He nervously patted his jacket just to make sure the glasses hadn't fallen out again.

"Well, I don't usually like it when people hurt other people, but Oliver deserved it. Maybe he'll stop picking on you now." Paul's voice was bright with optimism.

"Yeah, maybe," George replied uncomfortably, none too enthusiastic about the topic at hand. No matter if Oliver Danes deserved to get beaten up or not, George was quite ashamed of having sunk to such a level. What made matters worse, though, was the fact that a teacher had seen him… and recognized him. Surely he would be in a heap of trouble once he returned. His parents would be called, and it was well known that the Harrison's weren't tolerant in the least bit of wayward behavior. "How did you find me here, anyway?" he asked, eager for a change of subject.

"Well, when I was on the bus home, I saw you running down the street, so I got off on the next stop and started to follow you. But you were running really fast so I had to look around in a bunch of other stores before I found you in the pawn shop. What were you doing there, anyway?"

In response, George pulled the glasses out of his pocket and handed them to Paul, who stopped walking to examine them.

"Glasses, George?" Paul asked. "Wait, these are… what were Johnny's glasses doing at Rolling Dice?" He looked up at George, expecting a response, and then finally put two and two together. "George! You stole these!" He had practically shouted the last part, and a couple of passing adults shot them distrustful and disapproving looks.

"Shut it, Paul!" George hissed, snatching the glasses away from his friend for fear of being caught. "Say it louder, will you? I don't think they heard you in bloody London!"

"Jeez, sorry," Paul muttered, handing the glasses back and shoving his hands into his pockets. The two boys continued down the street. "What were you even doing there, anyway?"

"I don't know, Paul," George sighed in exasperation at his friend's prying questions.

"You're mad at me, aren't you?" Paul asked quietly, his feelings sounding hurt. "You have been recently, I can tell. Is this because of John and Ritchie? Because they'll be fine, George, please believe me. Don't be mad at me, it's bad enough that we don't have Johnny and Ritchie, I don't want you to get lost too." There was such a look of sorry pleading on Paul's face that George softened, sighing quietly and hunching his shoulders slightly. He could, of course, understand the feeling.

"I'm not mad at you, Paul. I love you, you know that. I'm just… mad. At everything, right now."

"Good, cause I love you too," Paul affirmed, more cheerily than before. "But not in the gushy way," he added as a small afterthought.

"Right, not in the gushy way," was the quick and slightly embarrassed response. For a few minutes, a comfortable silence enveloped the pair as they wandered down the familiar Liverpudlian streets, the grey sky above promising an upcoming fall of rain. Few people were on the road, and those who were didn't seem to be in much of a hurry to get where they were going. Adults shut their mouths tightly, keeping a grimly conservative expression of uncaring etched upon their plain faces. Whatever feelings they harbored inside- that is, if they even did- were well hidden under a façade of apathy that they all tried their best to pass onto the children. Paul looked up at the adults as he walked by, saw their stone-carved ashen faces, and shuddered. They were zombies, it seemed. And one of his biggest fears was turning into one of them.

"George?" he asked after a while, looking to turn his thoughts away from who he might become when he grew older. "Where are we going, anyway?"

"The hospital," George answered, his words short but not agitated like they had been before. Paul nodded in affirmation, not surprised at the location that had just been disclosed. Of course George would want to quickly return the glasses to John. It was better than keeping them at his own house, after all; Paul knew only too well that anything that came into contact with either of George's brothers was unlikely to come out un-maimed, never mind if both of them got their hands on it at once.

Soon they were at the hospital. Newton Memorial wasn't really all that far away from Rolling Dice, only about twenty blocks or so- a short walk at most, not taking into account avoiding the stoplights. Normally George and Paul and the other two would run through clear intersections, but recently the two group members left standing had been diligently obeying all the traffic laws and only crossing on red lights. Although the reason remained unspoken between them, both knew that it was mainly for one reason- to not join John and Ritchie in the hospital and leave only one of them left standing.

They entered the hospital and avoided the looking at the forlorn souls in the waiting room, instead heading down the hallway silently to John's room- number 909, a series of digits they had memorized, just like they had for Ritchie's- 910, conveniently placed close by. They were just about to turn in when they were stopped by the trim figure of a nurse. And not just any nurse, but Mary McCartney, on duty like every day and just so happening to be in the same place her son was trying to pass by.

"Paul? George?" asked Mary, slight confusion present in her tone. "Why aren't you at home?"

"Um…" Paul muttered, biding his time as he tried to come up with a reasonable excuse as a response to her question, biting his fingernail all the time. George stayed silent and looked the other way, like the wall beside them was suddenly very interesting in all its cream painted glory.

"Never mind that," she dismissed her own question with a flippant wave of her hand and kneeled down next to the boys, an action which above all got their attention. Adults never sunk themselves to a child's height, and Mary's ignoring of that unspoken law piqued their interest in what she had to say better than if she had blown a horn in their ears. "Boys," she said, a wide and gleeful grin spread across her face. "I have some news for you."

**A/N: Sorry I took so long to update! Well, hoped you guys liked this chapter... and I promise things will get back to normal soon! So, read and review, if you will, it makes my day :)**


	25. Chapter 25

October 11, 1948

By the sheer power of coincidence, on the same day and only a few hours after Richard Starkey had clawed his way out of the depths of his debilitating coma, John Lennon awoke too, just one room away. However, unlike Ritchie's coming about which had been slow and gradual, like easing into or perhaps out of a lake, John awoke quickly and suddenly, his eyes shooting open in one instant and jarring him from sleep to wakefulness. For quite a while after he had awoken, he simply lied there rather uselessly, blinking in utter confusion and trying to readjust himself to reality. The small part of him that was even bothering to recognize his surroundings registered the fact that he was in a hospital, but another part refused to believe that that was where he was. John couldn't remember anything at all happening to him to facilitate being in a hospital. He couldn't remember getting sick or hurt in any way, so he couldn't possibly be in a hospital. Not if he wasn't sick, that was. Was it possible that he was visiting, and had simply lost track of time and fallen asleep?

The only problem with such an explaination was that brought to mind the question of who he would visit in a hospital. Was it his mother? No, it couldn't be her- at least he didn't think so. Someone, though, was in a hospital. The details were becoming clearer, he could remember. Someone was in a hospital, but whom? Someone he knew, most certainly, someone his age. One of his friends. Was it Paul, perhaps? George? Neither one seemed right. It would have to be the fourth member of their group then… Ritchie. Yes, that was his name, despite how embarrassingly long it had taken for John to conjure up the two simple syllables. Ritchie. But what had happened to Ritchie? And would knowing whatever had happened to Ritchie even explain in the slightest why John himself would be in the hospital?

While John was preoccupied with his excessive ruminating of possibilities, a small bit of dust floating in the air found its way up his nose and caused the young boy to sneeze, a ridiculously spastic and unexpected motion that, once finished, flopped him unceremoniously and awkwardly back down onto the lumpy mattress like some sort of Raggedy Andy doll.

"Hey, you're awake," said a nonchalant voice without warning from somewhere beside John. Involuntarily, he startled a bit, for he wasn't expecting to hear anyone speak, but once he had gained the presence of mind to turn around and investigate who the sound came from, he found himself face to face with a boy of roughly his own age: freckled, with green tinted eyes and jet black hair even darker than Paul's, dressed in a school uniform and sitting in one of the rickety chairs offered to visitors. Behind the boy was a small girl who looked an awful lot like him, his sister perhaps, sleeping in a bed with her left leg propped up on a short stack of books and blankets, wrapped in an uneven plaster cast.

"I don't know who you are," John replied for lack of a better response, his words sounding quite George-like in their deadpan delivery.

"Oh," said the boy, standing up from his seat and offering a handshake. John absently shook the young boy's hand, pushing himself up in his bed and making an effort not to look like the weakling he perceived himself to be lying on the mattress. "My name's Stu." He grinned at his own introduction and performed an exaggerated mock bow that brought a smile to John's otherwise stoic face. Whoever this Stu boy was, he seemed so far to be quite likeable.

"Stu?" asked John, slightly amused by the name. In his mind, he conjured a picture of the boy's parents holding him on the day of his birth, a cauldron of stew beside them, and deciding joyfully to name their newborn son after the liquid dinner dish.

"Well, my name's not just Stu. It's short for Stuart. Stuart Fergusson Victor Sutcliffe."

"Oh, well I'm John," the other boy introduced himself back, slightly disappointed that his companion hadn't been named after Stu. John intently studied Stu, wondering for the first time exactly how long he had been lying obliviously next to the aforementioned boy. "Why are you here, exactly?" he asked, in an effort to break the ice.

"Me?" asked Stu, sitting back down in his wooden chair and tapping the sides in a bored manner. "Well, that's my sister over there," he gestured to the young girl behind him. "Her name's Joyce. She came here yesterday."

"What's wrong with her?"

"She broke her leg," Stu said offhandedly, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"How?" asked John.

"Yeah," said Stu. "I came here right after school to see her, but mostly because mum made me. She said that when Joyce wakes up she'll want to see me or her or someone else from the family. My other sister Pauline is here to, but she's off with mum getting lunch or something." Stuart shrugged and readjusted himself in his seat. John remembered the chairs as not being very comfortable at all and wondered why Stuart was willingly subjecting himself to their hard-seated horrors when he could just as easily stand up.

After a short lull in conversation, John started up the pleasantries again. "Hey," he said, causing Stu to look up and raise his eyebrows. "Do you know what day it is?"

Stu looked at the ceiling for a moment, as if very deep in thought. "October eleventh," he stated after a while.

"October eleventh?" John exclaimed in disbelief, eyes wide. "Last time I remember it was October seventh! Are you sure that's what day it is?"

"Well… yes. I mean, they put the date on the board at school," said Stu uneasily, looking at John wide-eyed like he was a talking fish or something of the sort. "And school is never wrong about what day it is. Why do you ask?"

"Cause that's…" John paused his sentence for a second as he did the math in his head. "Four days! And what happened to my birthday?"

"When's your birthday?" asked Stu.

"October ninth."

Stu held up his pointer finger in a silent gesture to remain quiet for a few seconds, and then hopped up from his chair, pulling a clipboard from the bottom of John's bed. "This paper says you came here on October ninth," he commented with an air of slight interest as he looked at the print on it, handing the clipboard over to John and standing next to him in order to peer over his shoulder. "See? Right there." Stu pointed to a small line labeled 'Date of admission', and sure enough scrawled in messy writing next to it was 10/9/48.

"Well then…" John said distantly. "What happened, anyway?"

Stu shrugged. "Wouldn't know. I only came here yesterday. But whatever happened to you, it sure did a number on your face."

"Huh?" asked John, self-consciously bringing his hands to his face and remembering that it had hurt to touch his eyes when he had awoken. He scowled for no particular reason.

"Yeah, maybe you got beat up or something?"

"I did _not _get beat up," John practically hissed, narrowing his eyes at Stuart, his manner turning sour in less than a second. Surprised at what seemed to be a complete overreaction to his suggestion, Stuart held his hands up in mock surrender and took a step backward.

"I was just saying," Stu muttered defensively. "You don't have to be all touchy about it."

John dropped his hands to his side and plopped back down onto the bed, turning crossly on his side so he was no longer facing Stuart and instead treated to a view of a sickly looking older boy of about thirteen. He bit his lip and pouted slightly, not caring that he was acting childish. John crossed his arms over his chest and hugged himself- an action he performed a lot whenever something provoked his easily volatile emotions. Besides, it was nice to be hugged.

"You know, you're being a real git, right?" Stuart said sharply, invading into John's inner circle of stewing anger in his brain and only serving to heighten it. "It was just a suggestion! And what on God's green earth do you have to be bitter about anyway, you're only seven!"

The last part sent John Lennon's already boiling temper over the edge. Somehow, everything that Stu or anybody else so _ignorant, _so _ignorant _about who he was and why he acted like he did had ever said up until that pointed spilled forth, straight from his brain out his mouth. In fact, as he was screaming at Stuart, he didn't even realize what he was saying until much after he had said it. "Eight!" he practically yelled, sitting up and looking straight at Stuart Sutcliffe. "I'm eight, apparently, since two days ago, and I wasn't even awake for it! And I don't even know what the hell happened to me, and nobody's probably going to tell me because _nobody cares_! Nobody cares about me at all, and they never ever did!"

"I'm sure at least someone cares about you…" Stu said uncertainly, all of his previous annoyance dissipated, wringing his hands. "Your mum was here…"

"My mum," scoffed John bitterly. "What does she care?! If she cared she would maybe think about saying hello to me or something every once in a while! If she loved me she'd walk me to school and kiss me goodnight like everyone else's mum does, but she doesn't! If my mother cared anything about me she wouldn't have let Bobby do all this to me!" He pulled the sleeve of his hospital gown back and pointed to a patchwork of whitish pink scars on it, acquired from the years of, as he saw it, his mother simply not caring. He pushed the sleeve back down and hugged the blankets closer to his chin, hunkering down farther into the bed, embarrassed at revealing what more or less amounted to his entire life story to a complete stranger. "It's not fair," he sighed softly, not to Stu or anybody else in particular. "Just not fair at all."

The conversation petered out slowly in the tumultuous and awkward wake of John's outburst, and Stu leaned against the wall between John's and Joyce's beds, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his knickers as he looked off towards the door. "Who's Bobby?" he asked softly after the short lull.

"Stepfather," said John shortly, the word tasting palpably bitter in his mouth.

"You should tell someone what he does to you," suggested Stu. "It's not right."

"Won't matter," muttered John, avoiding Stu's gaze and focusing on a water stain on the ceiling. "He's been gone now, for… almost three weeks." The figure surprised John once he did the math. Had it only been that long? It felt like forever since that one certain day with Bobby, when the awful life that the small nuclear family had shared had come to a climax and then completely imploded, fault of none other than himself, the stupid little idiot he was. And so much had happened, with his mother, Ritchie, the rest of friends, and everything else he could possibly imagine. Bad things just seemed to happen around him. Perhaps, if he wasn't around, the world would be so much bettered for it.

"Did your mum kick him out?"

"He's dead." John squinted and looked hard at Stu, pleased slightly when his acquaintance's face revealed only slight surprise, not pity or shock or anything else to that effect.

"Oh," said Stu. "My father's a bit like that, too." He had a wistful, sad look on his face as he revealed the information. "He doesn't hurt me or Pauline or Joyce or anything ever, but I've seen him being really mean to my mum sometimes. Drinks a lot too. But at least he's not home too much, he's usually working in a boat." Stu shrugged, and wiped off the strange look from his face in as impressive an effort of apathy that John's had ever before seen, except maybe some of his own work at hiding emotions. "She's told people, and he's gone to therapy some. Mum says it's making him nicer… I wouldn't know though."

John nodded.

"Stuart?" a woman's voice said. The door to the hospital room opened and a small, dark-haired, timid looking woman showed her face behind a backdrop of white hallway light. "Come on, let's go home. You need to do your homework."

Stu removed himself from the wall and shuffled over to his mother, who put her arm around her son and began to lead him out of the hospital. Just before he left the room, Stu turned back towards John and waved at John, who waved back enthusiastically. As the door closed behind Stu, John leaned back onto the lumpy bed pillow and smiled in contentment. It seemed that he had found a new friend.

**A/N: Yup, I know, I just HAD to include Stu... because Stu is awesome and everyone knows it. You know why? Because Stu's awesome. Anyway, I'd love to see some reviews, did you love it, hate it, want more, want to hit me with a rubber chicken? Love to hear it either way :-)**


	26. Chapter 26

October 12, 1948

_Balance has returned to the world._

That was the thought circulating in Mary McCartney's head as she made her rounds about the hospital, checking up on patients and filling out forms- routine work, as all the forms were the same and most of the patients were asleep. There could, she supposed, be a more interesting or higher-paid job in existence, but nursing was her true passion. There had always been something that had attracted her to the profession. Perhaps it was her inherently motherly nature, but she simply loved to care for others, and the smiles on healthy faces were simply wonderful to see, for rarely in the suppressed and dreary city did anyone see an expression of joy. Full of death as hospitals may be, they were also full of life and hope. At least as Mary could see it.

Luck, or maybe fate had certainly aligned in just the most perfect of ways for both of her son's friends to wake up from their respective medical crises in such a short period of time. Paul had spent so much time worrying about Ritchie, and then about John later that he was causing an actual physical disturbance in the McCartney household. Something inside Mary told her that Paul would never truly stop worrying about people and their wellbeing (and of course she loved him to death for it), but his obsessing over the two of them had been making him sick, literally. Many a time Mary had been forced to helplessly to pat her son's back and reassure him as calmly as possible while he retched into the wash basin, his stomach trying desperately to purge itself of the churning tension inside the young boy. The knowledge that the both of them were alive and well- especially Ritchie, as it had been made abundantly clear to Paul that John would be fine even before they were sure of the fact- would definitely ease him, and perhaps the stress of the past week could finally be laid to rest. Mary, for one, would welcome the change with open arms.

The older mother could still remember the day that she was informed that John had been found all beat up in an alleyway. She hadn't actually been at work at the time, as on Sundays her shift was at night. Instead she was at home, doing the wash in the peace of the lazy weekend morning when the phone rang. She was greeted by bad news, not surprising since nobody really delivered good news any more, but the surprising aspect was the messenger. Paul's high, fast paced, breathy voice telling her through what was undoubtedly one of his panic attacks of the news was what she was accosted by the minute she picked up the receiver. Naturally, after a miserably failed attempt to calm him down with soothing words, she had sped over to Newton Memorial on the nearest bus and gotten the first news about John Lennon from the doctors.

Apparently, Paul and George had found the young boy unconscious in an alley somewhere in inner city Toxteth, about a ten minute bus ride from where he lived. The good lord only knew what he had even been doing there in the first place; he had been banged up a bit when he came in, most likely from being attacked by one of the rampant street gangs Toxteth was known for, but the thing more to worry about concerning John was the fact that he had probably been in that alley for over two days, and had inhaled a lot of smoke, city chemicals, and moisture, which coupled with the hypothermia the October air had given the pajama-clad young boy had taken quite a toll on his small lungs. It was too early to tell how long it would take for him to be 100% again or if he really ever would be. Tactfully, Mary had kept all of that information to herself.

And of course there was the problem with what had happened to Ritchie. Although his coma had been blissfully short, it would take him a while to readjust himself to wakefulness, and he still hadn't really gotten over the appendectomy that had thrown him into the mess in the first place. Only a week had passed since the height of endangerment to Richard Starkey's young life, a short time to Mary but so much longer somehow when one was a child.

Lunch break was at 12:45, forty minutes of freedom to duck out of the hospital and revisit life outside of work. Mary bid her temporary farewells to her fellow nurses as they scampered out to wherever they pleased. Although she had packed a lunch, Mary wasn't in particular hungry, so instead she snatched a pack of cigarettes and left to stand outside the hospital and smoke them leisurely, letting the intoxicating combination of nicotine, menthol and tobacco ease her mind.

_Children, _Mary thought. So strange, they were, a fact that she didn't truly realize until she birthed her own. A child is born ignorant, unknowing of anything the world may hold. Possibilities are endless. Just one baby is no different from any other, for they're all born in the same way, naked and hopeful and blissfully, wonderfully ignorant. Does woe exist when one is a child?

Mary could remember being young. The memories grew fainter day by day, yes, for she was a woman of fifty years and middle age had passed long ago. Her own upbringing hadn't been ideal, of course. Her parents divorced and her father married a woman who didn't much care for the children of his that weren't also her own. She had grown up quick, sent straight from a time of dress-up and dolls to bitterly shuffling between houses and caring for her younger siblings. Her own children, two beautiful young boys, were born to her after she had passed forty, and that had given her time to really think about how she wanted them to grow up. And she had wanted their innocence preserved more than anything else, but time had proved that it was an impossible task by taking its toll and exposing realities that not even Mary's best efforts could hide. The world was tailored for hopelessness and despair. She may tell her children that anything is possible, but society would beg to differ. Life was made to break you while you're young, destroy your illusions before you can even begin to form them. And perhaps her spirit hadn't been broken before, but it was now. For only a few years Paul and even Mike had been idealists, dreamers who believed what they were told and always saw the best in every situation. Then John had come along.

Mary couldn't blame John. He was a victim of circumstance, born to a wayward father and an irrational and unstable young mother who could never seem to make the right choice for herself, torn away from his family many a time and thrown back each time without a trace of care to a cruel alcoholic of a stepfather. It was no more his fault the way his life seemed to be going that it was hers.

She sighed as she looked out on Liverpool. Fifty years she had spent there, and the condition of the place was only deteriorating. It was a city of neglectfulness these days, ever since the bombings of 1940. And even before that it seemed that the colors were washing out, buildings turning grey and streets cracking, buses belching out black smoke and even the interiors of houses wearing out like an old pair of shoes. Money was scarce, food too. It wasn't that people were starving, but it was close to impossible to get your hands on a fruit or a vegetable, much less a piece of meat or a cup of sugar. All she could cook for nearly ten years now had been reconstituted mush, and only small servings of it at the time. As Churchill and the rest of the government were oh so fond of telling its people, conservation was the key to success. But Mary couldn't see any successes. All she could see were decimated buildings in need of repair and zombielike people meandering in front of them. Somewhere far off, children climbed over the ruins of an office building, and Mary smiled slightly. A beacon of light.

She stubbed out her last cigarette and rubbed her tongue against her teeth, frowning at the thick and gritty film over them. As wonderfully addictive as the smoke of her habit may be, one thing she had never gotten used to was the dry, dirty feel that would always pervade her mouth after smoking more than a couple death sticks. She made a mental note to brush her teeth as soon as she got home, providing there was any toothpaste left.

Lunch break was nearly over, and Mary still hadn't actually gotten anything to eat- a problem that she simply shrugged off unlike the rest of her worries. She hadn't been particularly hungry anyway. After tossing the empty carton into a nearby wastebasket, Mary began her brisk walk back into the hospital and over to the nurse's station to pick up her orders for the rest of the day. However, once she got to the station, something stopped her right before she could lay her hands on her paperwork.

It was Julia. Julia Lennon, looking more beaten and washed up than ever before. Her shapeless grey factory uniform hung over her thin, bony body like a rough cotton bag, and her soft red hair was disheveled and tangled. Her skin was pale from the lack of exposure to sunlight, there were bags under her eyes, and her cheeks had sunken inwards in a way that reminded Mary somewhat of George, except for the fact that Julia's sallow face looked to be the product of nights without sleep and days without meals. Julia stood beside the nurse's station, her back hunched as she wrung her hands, looking like she didn't quite belong where she was. And truly she didn't belong, because the Julia Stanley that had gone away with yesteryear had been born to a higher class society, full of dresses and tea parties and delicacy. This Julia Lennon, however, was a victim of her own bad choices, an ostracized daughter to an unsympathetic father, an abuser's widow and a seaman's ex, a mother of two forced into a factory job in the most unsavory of places, aged 31 physically but mentally decades older. Beside her, young Julie lay sprawled on the floor, playing with a block of wood like it was the most interesting toy in existence as she hummed a sweet tune. There was no trace on her the peachy skin of her daisy-like face that anything was amiss.

"Julia," acknowledged Mary cautiously with a small nod of her head. Somehow, she could never quite acclimate herself to the flighty redheaded mother or even come to tolerate her. The cockiest part of Mary believed that she herself would've handled the terrible situation Julia was in better, and perhaps that was the reason for the tension between the two women. However, she bit her tongue and remained cordial.

"Mary!" Julia exclaimed suddenly upon hearing the woman's voice, looking up from her vantage point beside the wooden counter and grabbing Mary to hug her around the middle, tightly as she possibly could. Surprised by the action, Mary took a step back before tentatively reciprocating and patting the young woman gently on the back. Eventually, Julia broke away and began to speak. "Oh, Mary," she said breathily, quickly like relaying her information was detrimental to the universe. "I've been here for god knows how long looking for you! Oh, but I've only left to go to work and put Julie in school since John came." There was a sad, whining desperation in Julia's voice that Mary felt badly for ever thinking ill of the inexperienced and unfortunate mother.

"I just got off my lunch break," Mary explained, uselessly shuffling a stack of papers out of a lack of anything more productive to do. "Is something the matter?"

"I would suppose you know that John's here," Julia sighed, leaning against the counter and sadly watching her daughter pretend that her wooden block was a baby, feeding it invisible formula and rocking it gently. Young Julie would make a good mother herself one day, ruminated Julia as she watched the innocent play. Unlike herself.

"He's awake you know," supplied Mary, in the hope that the knowledge would cheer Julia up. However, the only good the news did was bring a small, rueful smile to Julia's face as she refocused her attention to the tabletop in front of her.

"Yes," Julia sighed. "I know. I tried to visit him as soon as I heard, but the doctor's told me he needed to rest." She paused a moment and took a deep breath before continuing. "Mary, I have to tell you something."

There was something about the way in which Julia said the last sentence that worried Mary greatly for some reason. So, she nodded sympathetically and looked at Julia, who seemed at this point to be close to tears. Of course, she could hardly blame her. Julia Lennon had a lot of things to cry about.

"Mary, I can't do it," said Julia, looking off into the distance with a vacant look in her eyes. "I just can't anymore."

"Do what?" asked Mary, confused.

"Take care of them!" was the exasperated reply, as if Mary should've known without asking. "I just can't do it anymore. It's too much. There's not enough factory shifts to make the money to support even one kid, much less two. I just… can't. Not anymore."

"You can't take care of your children," Mary clarified slowly.

"Exactly," Julia muttered with a bitter chuckle, looking over her shoulder at her young daughter to make sure she wasn't overhearing the conversation at hand. "I just need my life back."

"_Your_ life?!" asked Mary, flabbergasted, not caring who heard her. "What do you mean, your own life? The lives of your children should always come first, before anything!" she slammed a stack of papers in need of signing on the table in front of Julia for emphasis.

"Look, I'm not asking for a fight," Julia said, slightly testily, taking a step back and standing up straighter in an effort to look strong. She quieted her voice and looked once more behind her shoulder to reassure herself that Julie couldn't hear or understand what was being spoken. "I'm asking you a favor."

"A favor?" Mary asked incredulously, adjusting her hat. "What favor could you possibly be asking of me now?"

"I want you to take John."

Mary was silent for several moments. Her hands dropped to her sides and she simply stood in place for several seconds, looking at Julia with her face an even mixture of anger and surprise. From somewhere behind her, a voice reminded her that her shift started in three minutes, but Mary ignored them. "You want me to take John," she said slowly, vacantly. It was such a huge request that it had barely even registered in Mary's mind.

"Yes," sighed Julia, raking her fingers through her curly copper hair. "I've told you already, I can't take care of them! I never have been able to. Not with Alfred, not with Bobby, and certainly not on my own. My job doesn't even pay enough to support me! And you've seen Toxteth. It's eat or be eaten over there, and I don't want my kids to grow up like that."

"Are those your only motives?" Mary asked testily. She didn't quite trust Julia's intentions. The flighty and carefree redhead hadn't had her convictions even from the first moment they met, dubious decision making and all. Mary crossed her arms across her chest and doled out the same withering look she treated her sons to whenever they did something wrong.

"Well… no. I'm thirty-one," Julia replied quietly. "Don't you know how much life I have left? Years! And I can't… I can't waste them in such a boring, doldrums life! You understand Mary, I-"

"Your children are not a waste of time!" Mary roared, wheeling around to come face to face with the startled woman. "They are your children, and they should always be your pride and joy! And if you think that you're mature enough to screw every man in Liverpool then you're mature enough to raise the byproduct!" At this, young Julie finally looked up at Mary in alarmed confusion. However, being less than two years old, she didn't really understand what was being said. The only thing she actually processed accurately was the advanced volume, and soon she went back to her wooden block and though no more of the outburst.

"Mary, you have to help me!" whined Julia. "John loves your family! More than me, anyway." She raked her hands down her face, her finger pads resting on her closed eyelids. "Mary, please."

"Okay, fine. Say John does come to live with me. What'll happen to Julie?"

"My sister, her Aunt Harriet, says she'll take her. She's divorced and has a son. It'll be like living with me and John, I suppose." Julia laughed humorlessly. "She lives in Cairo."

"Cairo!" Mary exclaimed. "You're shipping your daughter to Egypt?"

"I don't want to be tempted… to take her back." Julia swiped small tears from her eyes with her clutched fist. "Harriet's going to be her mummy from now on. Julie's so young, she'll forget me and John and the rest of England soon. She'll adjust well."

"This is the most selfish thing I have ever heard a person do!" Mary said menacingly, pointing an accusatory finger at the woman before her. "To think your child can forget you so easily! And to want to just up and leave them to get on with your life? You're disgusting!"

"I know!" yelled Julia, giving no thought anymore to keeping her voice down. "Don't you think I know how awful of a person this makes me? Don't you think I know how despicable I must seem to you? I know I'm abandoning my children! And do you think that's not the hardest decision I have ever had to make in my life? Because it is! I have spent my whole life making decisions that made John's life a living hell, and it's about time he knows what it's like to grow up somewhere where he can be loved and not have to worry every night about whether everyone will still be alive when he wakes up! Please, Mary, you have to do this for me!"

It took Mary several minutes of whirring thought before she could come up with a response. But there was really only one decision she could make, wasn't there? What would she condemn John to if she said no?

"Fine," said Mary cautiously. "I'll take John and raise him as my own son." Julia opened her mouth in elation, but was stopped short before she could respond. "But!" said Mary. "You can no longer have any contact with him. Ever. You've broken his heart enough times, once more and it may not mend."

Julia nodded, tears welling up in her eyes.

"Remember that you asked this of me, so you have to obey my terms. John is now my son, not yours. I don't want you visiting. I don't want to see you with him ever again. You're nothing but bad news for him, and the sooner you're gone the better. Do you understand?" Mary said it with a sense of finality about herself, true to her word and convictions. A small part of her worried about what Jim would think of her suddenly adopting a third child without his consultation, but hard-hearted as the spectacled man might be, Mary was certain she could make him see her way.

"Can't I say goodbye?" asked Julia meekly, tears running down her cheeks.

"No," Mary replied firmly. "Don't drag this out for him. I'll pick him up and bring him to my house as soon as he's well enough, and I'll come to get his things at your place on Friday afternoon. Alone." She added the last word as a small afterthought, should Julia get her hopes up that her son would arrive one last time to retrieve his possessions.

Julia nodded, choking back a pathetic sobbing noise. "I'll be going now," she whispered, nearly inaudibly, looking shell-shocked as could be. She pushed back her messy hair with one hand and with the other gently grasped her daughters arm and hoisted the young girl onto her hip, hugging her tightly to cherish all the time she had left with the oblivious child. She turned slowly and began to walk slowly out of the hospital, her feet scraping against the tile with each step. However, before she was all the way out she turned and nodded to Mary in a small gesture that still yet carried the weight of a thousand words. "Thank you," she whispered, not even sure if Mary could hear. And then she left the hospital and let the double doors bang softly shut behind her.

Once she left, Mary immediately sat down in a nearby chair and put her head in her hands, taking a deep breath or several and looking at the floor, her vision swimming before her as her mind reeled. In just a couple of minutes, she had gone from having two children to three. Just those few minutes had completely changed her life. But, she realized, it would really more change John's life, not her own. John, who would finally know what a real family was, what it's like to go home to a stable environment every day and always have someone to comfort you in times of trouble. A place where the unknowable terrors he had experienced thus far could recede to the territory of things passed as his mind made more room for love and laughter and les for anger and fear. And with each second that she sat in the rickety wooden chair as the business of the hospital continued unceasingly around her, Mary became more and more convinced that her decision had been the right one.

"Mary?" said Diane, one of the other nurses, who had suddenly appeared behind the nursing counter. Mary looked up at her and smiled widely, her first grin in a long while. "Here's your patient list." Diane handed her a scuffed clipboard that Mary dazedly wrapped her fingers around as she nodded in silent thanks..

Mary leaned back in her chair and looked at the name of her first patient: _J. W. Lennon, room 910._ John. She smiled broadly at the thought of seeing him as her first patient of the afternoon

But then Mary realized that he wasn't her patient. He was her son.

**A/N: Well, my lovelies, here's another update for you all, and I'm sure you all loved the much-promised new development... and THANK you, for all the beautiful reviews! I have finally broken the 100 mark, and I couldn't do it without you! Your continued support has made me the writer I am today.**

**Also- special shoutout to KasutoVero for the actual 100th review... but everyone who ever reviewed or read ever officially recieves a patent-pending Awesome Pin :)**


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